Magpie: Two for Joy
by sevenpercent
Summary: Sherlock, John and Mary are trying hard to normalise their relationship. Case fic and wedding plans test the assumptions of all three. A continuation of Magpie: One for Sorrow, but will stand alone.
1. Prologue

Magpie One Prologue

 **Prologue: T minus 2 and counting**

After replacing the cap on the black magic marker pen, Sherlock stood quietly, his eyes roaming across the wall over the sofa. In the background, he could hear the CD recording of the Prince of Denmark's March, a piece written by Jeremiah Clarke in 1700. The music prompted a stray memory- of when as an eight year old he had learned that the piece commonly called "The Trumpet Voluntary" was in fact written for the organ, and not the brass instrument. "Why is the title wrong?" he had asked his brother.

He could still hear Mycroft's superior sniff: "It's not an _actual_ trumpet, Sherlock. It refers to a particular organ stop, generally a single rank reed stop, with vertical full-length resonators flared to form a bell; in traditional organ building, the trumpet stop makes a firmer, more solid-pitched tone than the French Trompette, which emphasises overtones at the expense of fundamental note."

At some point in his childhood after that, Sherlock had come to loathe keyboard instruments, perhaps because Mycroft had always been such a know-all about them.

As the sun set outside, Sherlock felt the cold; late spring days might warm up, but the nights could still be frosty, so he slipped his camel dressing gown on over his shirt and trousers and then re-focused his attention back on the wall. The smiley face was obscured by various pieces of paper, photographs and lists, floorplans, invoices, print outs of emails- even a map of the United Kingdom in the centre- useful for calculating travel distances and therefore the times between each milestone that would need to be passed along the way on a particular day. He'd spent almost an hour today tracking down the latest road and rail construction areas that could interfere, mapping the traffic diversions in the designated target area and re-calculating travel times accordingly. Neatly typed and printed labels cordoned off different parts of the wall. He had made an effort to keep it neat and tidy, because this wall was for more than just his own use. His eidetic memory meant that he'd managed easily to do without a physical evidence board for most of his two years away, but Sherlock had to make an effort on this occasion to accommodate the less organised minds that were at work with him on this particular problem.

Various parts of the board were linked by strings of yarn, some in a tasteful shade of blue, others in a rather unfortunate pink to help those less able people draw the necessary connections through the data. The wool for both had been purloined from Mrs Hudson, after she abandoned the half-knitted scarf for her sister's godson, Peter, because the recipient had announced rather petulantly that there was no way on earth he'd wear something so girly. Sherlock had some sympathy with the ten year old- the pink was rather shocking and would have been a magnet for school yard bullying- if she'd ever managed to finish it by next autumn. He'd finally resorted to using the yarn strings to help the others learn chapter and verse exactly what was required of them. He certainly didn't need the visual reminder of who needed to do what, by when, even if the why still sometimes eluded him.

Behind him, Sherlock could feel the emptiness of the flat pressing against his back. The sensation still bothered him, and the fact that he was so aware of the absence of John tonight bothered him even more. He'd spent years alone; now and what was to come should be no different. But, no matter how often he told himself that, building this evidence wall was the hardest thing he'd ever done. It demanded things of him that he'd never believed he would willingly do. Sherlock shifted his weight and squared his shoulders a bit, drawing in a deep breath. _Once more unto the breach..._

The wall had come to serve as a canvass of his life for the past four months. He, Mary and John had stood or sat in front of it at least twice a week and talked. But, oddly, the more the three of them were drawn to this wall, the worse his anxiety had become. He could not help but feel each moment ticking down; it was worse than that digital counter on the underground bomb, because there was no off switch, no way to turn off the electricity current, no last minute intervention to stop the countdown, delay or defer the inevitable. He had submerged himself in the planning, losing himself in the minutiae as if paying enough attention to the details would help obscure the end result.

It was the end of 'T minus two and counting'. John and Mary were getting married the day after tomorrow, just as he had planned it in exact detail. The irony of using his case evidence techniques for wedding planning was not lost on him. _I am guilty of planning and executing a crime against myself, against John and even Mary, too._

A twinge in his jaw reminded him that he'd been clenching his teeth rather too much lately.

Tomorrow was the rehearsal dinner. The guest list was neatly typed – lower middle wall, just above the sofa. He'd just drawn a line through one of the guest names- Janine Hawkins- she'd emailed Mary just an hour ago to cry off. Mary's forwarding e mail said that Janine's employer had demanded her presence at a business meeting in Paris tomorrow, which was to be followed by an evening dinner hosted for the Monsieur Harlem Desir, the Minister in charge of European Affairs. But, "not to worry; she promises she will be there on the day."

The wedding was the day after tomorrow, so in theory Miss Hawkins should be back in time, but just in case she did not show, Sherlock had already briefed one of the other bridesmaids, Sarah Chambers, a fellow nurse at the surgery. He'd prepared a typed sheet of instructions. "Think of it as being an understudy; one never hopes for misfortune, but it could be to your benefit, Miss Chambers. The maid of honour's present is considerably more valuable than the one chosen for ordinary bridesmaids. It might just compensate you for the fact that you are unlikely ever to wear again the bridesmaid's dress, given that lilac does not suit someone with ginger hair and your complexion. Have you thought of dying your hair blonde for the day? It will mean that you wouldn't clash with the bride in the wedding photos." The young woman had given him a rather insulted look, before saying "no."

Sherlock mentally re-organised the dinner table plan, in case Mary's worries proved accurate about Miss Hawkins. He grimaced slightly that he would now be forced to sit next to the Sarah Chambers. At least before the dinner he would be able to assess her ability to follow instructions. He was all in favour of the idea of a rehearsal- every activity on the wall had been carefully timed and the schedule was meticulously worked out in minute-by-minute detail, but even then proper contingency required a dry run. But why this had to also be an occasion for eating and drinking, Sherlock could not understand. There was so much of this process that he had found perplexing.

Sherlock idly wondered whether he might be able to bribe Lestrade to call him away from the restaurant tomorrow night with an urgent case. He could promise John to be back in time for the actual wedding; it was worth a try to avoid at least this part of the (shudder) socialising that came with the event. The next two days would be something out of his worst nightmares- people, noise, confusion, petty conversations, and then, to top it all, having to give a speech in front of an audience. The last time he'd done that, it was at Moriarty's trial and that had ended up with him being arrested for contempt of court.

He sighed.

Sherlock dropped down to his knees and used the blank sheet of paper on the coffee table to draw a thin rectangle and then inserted the names of the six people along one side, then climbed onto the sofa to post up the Plan B version of the Reception top table. _Just in case Miss Hawkins is a no-show._ In the process, his eye was drawn to the enlarged photograph of the wall-paper in the Orangery of the Arnsworth Castle hotel: a bright sunny yellow, with painted greenery and a series of large blue and white birds elegantly flying about. He'd used the photo to help with the choice of fabrics for the bridesmaids' dresses and for the flowers and table arrangements. Mary had adored the room, but there was something that annoyed him about the birds.

They were what might charitably be termed artistically drawn, rather than faithful to any particular species of bird. At first, he had thought of them as akin to Fairy Terns, a smallish all white sea-faring bird with an elegant forked swallow-like tail. He'd seen them off the South Indian sea coast. But the birds on the mural were too big for terns, and their colouring was all wrong. These soaring on the reception room walls reminded him a bit of magpies, with white on their body and heads. But the blue wasn't the right hue, there was no green or black as there should be for _Pica pica_ , and a magpie's tail was not forked. He wondered why the idea had come into his head that they were magpies.

And then he remembered the rhyme: _Two for joy._


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One: T minus 88 to 86 Days**

* * *

Sherlock's eyes bored right through the mirrored plate glass window, as if it wasn't there.

Sally Donovan took her eyes off the suspect being interviewed long enough to register the fact that the Consulting Detective was not a happy witness to the interview going on. She might have had a two year break from having him on her cases, but she had not lost the knack of interpreting the fidgets of the man whose impatience was almost tangible. He'd told Lestrade that this interview was a waste of time; she disagreed.

The Farintosh Jewellery heist was a big one- over £1.25 million pounds worth of goods stolen, including the Rosenborg Opal tiara*- an heirloom piece worth almost half of that total on its own. It had been in the jewelery shop to be repaired. The robbery in Pimlico was bad enough, but it had also cost the life of a witness- a homeless young man by the name of Terry Matthews who had presumably witnessed the burglar escaping with his loot.

For the past week, the combined forces of Lestrade's MIT and Len Barrow's Flying Squad unit from the Specialist, Organised and Economic Crime command had assembled the evidence. Eventually, facial recognition software had identified the suspect who was now being interviewed.

Lestrade's voice sounded amplified and slightly distorted on the speaker attached to the wall beside the window.

"So, let me get this straight. You went to the Tesco Metro at 6.14pm, bought some cold beer and then went home?"

The suspect shook his head. "No, on Thursday, the day you are talking about, I was at home watching the football. I didn't leave the house all evening. I go to the shop every _Wednesday_ ; that's my curry night- have done for years, but never on a Thursday."

Sitting beside Lestrade, Len Barrow leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms and sniggered. Watching the scene with Sherlock in the darkened observation room, Sally gave a low whistle. "Robert Penrose, you are one smooth liar. He really looks like he's telling the truth."

"In this case, Sergeant, that is because he is actually telling the truth." Sherlock said it quietly, not shifting his gaze from the suspect. He was rubbing the inside of his index finger against the thumb nail of his left hand, over and over, quite rapidly in almost flicking motion.

She threw a puzzled look at the Consulting Detective, who did not appear to notice her reaction. "That's impossible. We've got him on the in-store CCTV." Sally sniggered. "Or are you saying he's got an identical twin? A doppleganger?"

Sherlock was nodding, but she realised it wasn't in response to her comment. "You're too quick to make assumptions, Sergeant."

Sally snorted. "And you're too quick to ignore the obvious evidence. I don't even know why you are here; the Guv didn't ask for your help- he's got enough on his plate, working with the Flying Squad. We don't need you getting in the way."

It was true that Lestrade had not asked Sherlock to get involved. It was the Danish royal family who had contracted the services of the Consulting Detective. The tiara was an heirloom that they wanted back, and he was here on their behalf. Sally didn't like that fact any more than she liked the idea of having him involved in a case that was "not the sort that usually interests you" as she put it. "A kid was bashed over the head by a beer bottle by a burglar; unfortunately, the concussion and hypothermia did him in, hours later. Manslaughter at best; no ghoulish details for you to obsess over."

Sally was struggling to find her way back to a working relationship with the man she once disparaged as the Freak. She hadn't called him that to his face since his return; guilt about her role in his downfall still restrained her a bit. But she was who she was, and while he might be quieter on a crime scene than he used to be, he was who he was. She'd really rather not have had him around on cases that she thought of as "hers". Without John Watson to soften the Consulting Detective's abrasiveness, she found it hard to avoid being irritated. Whatever Lestrade had said about the two men "sorting things out", the doctor wasn't making many appearances these days. It made her feel nostalgic for the two years when she'd not had to deal with being irked so much by Holmes.

Her sense of irritation got the better of Sally, so she said what she felt in a loud enough voice that he would not mistake her. "He's a convicted criminal. The evidence says he's lying, even if he says he isn't. That's what we have to go on. No use trying to make this more interesting than it is."

Across the interview table, Lestrade was as unimpressed by the suspect's answer as Len Barrow had been. He turned the laptop in front of him so the suspect could see the screen, and then tapped the keyboard to play the video. "This is CCTV of that day and that time- check out the digital numbers- and that's _you._ We finally tracked you down by matching your face to your bank branch three streets away- they have you on their cash machine camera, withdrawing money the day before. Facial recognition software says there's a match, and we used it to get your name and address."

Sally didn't need to see the footage being shown to the suspect; she was the one who had retrieved it from the supermarket. In it Robert Penrose walked into the camera's range, carrying a wire basket with a six pack of cold beer cans and a ready-meal. She'd even stopped the frame and examined it closely enough to know that it was a chicken curry, complete with rice.

Lestrade continued. "The CCTV camera in front of the Farintosh jewellery store two doors down the Warwick Way shows you walking out of the Tesco Metro, past the laundromat, then the jewellers, and turning left at the end of the parade of shops, down Tachbrook Street. Then, off camera, you must have walked down the alley to the back of the Jewellers where you picked the locks to get in through the back door. For the next hour or so, you cleaned the place out. You took the in-store camera footage of the burglary and destroyed them. We found the damaged kit, the smashed hard-drive, missing the crucial data files."

Lestrade leaned forward, and tapped the keyboard again, to fast-forward the footage. "But you forgot the front door camera, which was our lucky break- it's on a different system that you missed. And it catches you again, on your way back in front of the shop, and this time, you're not carrying the bag of groceries. That's because, on exiting the back door, you must have been seen by Terry Matthews- that's the name of homeless guy who'd bunked down for the night somewhere in that alley. So, you hit him with the beer bottle and crushed his skull. We also found something in the bin at the end of the alley- an unopened curry and the rest of your beers. Took us a while to find that, but it matches the ones you left Tesco carrying. The shoe prints in the shop? Yes, indeed, they match yours, too."

Penrose's face did not alter; he sat unmoved, his expression showing nothing but calm certainty. The lawyer appointed after his arrest leaned over to whisper something in his ear, but he waved the man away. "You're wrong. I wasn't there. I didn't steal anything. I'm innocent."

Len Barrow was a big man, imposing in his own way. And he used it now, "But you have _form_ , Mister Penrose- a three year prison record for burglary. Worse still, you have no way to corroborate your statement that you were at home, alone. No alibi."

"I don't need an alibi. I did my time sixteen years ago, but one thing prison taught me- apart from mending my ways and keeping my nose clean- it created a real need for routine. I _never_ go out on a Thursday."

Burrows shook his head, "That's not good enough. Not without a witness."

Beside Sally, Sherlock shifted his weight and muttered something too quietly for her to hear. "What was that, Holmes? Admitting you're wrong?"

Sherlock didn't shift his gaze from the suspect, but snapped, "No, I said that he is innocent until proven guilty, and you have not done so." In a swirl of coat, he opened the door of the viewing room and stalked out, heading back upstairs to the MIT incident room.

When the interview concluded some ten minutes later, Lestrade, Barrow and Sally eventually went upstairs, but the sight that greeted them was unusual, to say the least.

Sherlock was sitting on one of the desks, facing the evidence board. The investigation had generated a lot of evidence- which had been taped up on not one, but two white boards- a total maze of photos and notes, from the crime scene and then a great gallery of photos from the Tesco security cameras, about a third of which had been identified with a name on a yellow sticky note- Penrose was the seventh out of about twenty.

There were several officers from the Flying Squad in the room- and they were watching Sherlock incredulously. Len stopped to join them.

As Sally and Greg came around the desk, she realised that the Consulting Detective's eyes were closed. He was gesturing rapidly- his left hand plucked something invisible from the air, and moved it around to a different position, while his right hand seemed to be drawing lines to it. He did this repeatedly, in total silence.

One of the Flying Squad officers sniggered. "I thought this guy was supposed to be your team's secret weapon. I think he's gone off his trolley, Guv. Or is this hocus-pocus all part of the celebrity act?"

Lestrade shot the man a withering look, before turning his attention back to the eccentricity.

"Sherlock- what's going on?"

There was no reply at first. Sally felt some sympathy with the Flying Squad guys, who were getting restless, and their muttering was on the edge of becoming louder and more abusive.

She whispered to Lestrade, "Do you think we should call Watson? I know they don't work together like they used to, but maybe he knows why the F…" she stopped what she was going to say and then continued "… _Holmes_ is being quite so weird."

Suddenly Sherlock's arms stopped in mid-air, and a pair of grey green eyes snapped open. "This is _all wrong._ " He gestured dismissively towards the boards. "Most of this so-called evidence is a total waste of time. _Time_ is the crucial thing here; you needed to think of this as a time line."

Lestrade looked back at the crammed white boards. "I'm not following you."

Sherlock lowered his arms and glared. "Clearly, as you've ended up interviewing the wrong person."

Burrows came forward. "Penrose fits, and the evidence supports it. Anything else is just….pointless speculation. It just isn't that complicated. You're just after more headlines."

"And you, Detective Inspector, are incapable of seeing anything beyond the obvious- that is, what you were meant to see. You lack the imagination to understand the criminal mind."

Before Burrows could snap a caustic reply, Lestrade held up his hands between the two of them, like a referee stopping a boxing match. "That's enough- from _both_ of you. Sherlock, if you think we've got the wrong person, then you have to prove it- because the evidence may be circumstantial, but there's enough of it to build a prosecutor's case."

Sherlock sighed, and shook his head slowly. "I need to interview Daphne Farintosh, the owner. And bring in her brother-in-law- his name is Bill Wright; he's in on it, too."

Sally just started laughing, "Now I've heard it all- you think an elderly widow is the criminal? And they're like, what- the Waters family? You're making this up. Mrs Farintosh is the person who stands to lose the _most_ from the robbery."

Sherlock glowered. "The person who had that 'honour' is Terry Matthews, the young man who lost his _life_ , Sergeant. His death wasn't planned, but then Mrs Farintosh and her brother-in-law hadn't calculated on the 23rd of January being such a cold night."

She rolled her eyes at the _non sequiter_. "What difference could the temperature on the night of the burglary make?"

He turned to her and said with real steel in his tone, "I'm not going to bother answering that question. Since you haven't a clue about this case, I prefer to let the real criminals confess to the crime. A confession trumps circumstantial evidence every time."

Ninety minutes later, the interview room was in use again. Only this time, Sherlock was on the right side of the observation mirror, alongside Lestrade. Barrow and Donovan had been relegated to the observation room. Across from Sherlock and the DI was Mrs Daphne Farintosh, a grey-haired woman in her early seventies, conservatively dressed in a rather dated dark grey tweed suit with an opal brooch setting off her ice-blue cashmere sweater.

When Sally had greeted her at the front desk to escort her to the interview room, Mrs Farintosh greeted her with a grandmotherly smile. "There you are, Sergeant. I remember you from the day of the burglary. It was just so nice to see a woman amongst all those big police officers. I do hope you've got good news; the constable says an arrest has been made. I just want all this kerfuffle to get sorted out soon."

Now, sitting across from Lestrade and Sherlock, she seemed a bit bewildered. Next to her was a lawyer, Tom Grange, exuding an air of protectiveness.

He was the one who spoke first. "Look, I'm not a criminal lawyer, but I've been a friend of the family for years. I really must protest this, Detective Inspector. We came here in good faith, expecting to be updated on your arrest of the thief. We thought this was a meeting, not an interrogation. And on our way here, she's had a call from her brother-in-law to say that he's been brought in, too- to 'help with police inquiries', as they say." He eyed the recording machine suspiciously. "Daphne has given all the information she has about the theft at her business; you already have her statement."

Lestrade introduced Sherlock to the pair, and the reaction from the lawyer was astonishment. "What on earth? Why would _you_ of all people be involved in this investigation?" Clearly, all the newspaper coverage of his cases since Sherlock's return created an impact. The lawyer blurted out, "This isn't a …a bomb plot or a people-smuggling racket!"

Unfazed by the man's reaction, Sherlock answered the question. "Indeed not. I'm here on behalf of my clients, the Rosenborg family."

The woman's discomfort became even more pronounced. Quietly and with feeling she said, "Please convey my deepest regrets about this to the family. I'm just so sorry that their piece was stolen. My husband Harry would have been mortified, if he had been alive now." Her eyes teared up a bit. "He died in early November."

"This is _all_ about bad timing, Mrs Farintosh, isn't it?" Sherlock made it a statement, rather than a question.

She looked a bit shocked by the question. "Well, of course! Nobody ever _plans_ on dying from a heart attack, do they? It was so heart-breaking; Harry and I have been together since before you were born, young man."

Lestrade intervened to ask, "Can you explain to us why the tiara was at the shop? I hope you won't mind me asking this, but there are much bigger jewelers with international reputations. So, why your shop?"

She was a bit put out by the question. "Detective Inspector, just because my husband's business is small compared to someone like Mappin & Webb, it doesn't mean that we don't have a good reputation. My late husband was Australian, and one of the few jewelers in Europe who had the expertise in opals to have done the repair. Opals aren't easy like diamonds. They're soft compared to a lot of precious stones, and the crystal opals on that tiara were really delicate, needing someone with experience to clean and repair such a historic piece. A week before he died, the Rosenborgs agreed with Harry that they'd send the opal tiara to us after the Christmas season. It's just bad timing that the tiara was in the shop the night it was broken into."

She gave Sherlock a firm look. "If the police can't recover it from the thief, then at least they'll get the insurance. I'm trying to do the right thing, even if the burglars are to blame. Despite our insurance company's policy of having a ten percent excess on any one item and refusing to pay the full assessment value, we're making up the difference, so the Rosenborgs won't lose out." She now looked fondly at the man sitting beside her. "It isn't easy for a small business like ours; it will cost us a great deal, and if I didn't have Tom here to help me through all the legal stuff, I don't know what I would have done."

Sherlock sniffed, totally unmoved by the elderly woman's moral tone. "That's not what I meant about bad timing and you know it, so let me explain the facts for the benefit of the rest of the people in the room." He was not conceding a thing to her age or manner, but treating her as he would have if she'd been a hardened criminal with a long record.

Behind the glass, Barrow snorted. "Not exactly house-trained, is he? I feel a complaint to the IPCC coming on. That lawyer friend of hers won't accept her being badgered."

Sally rolled her eyes. "You have _no_ idea. Holmes once yelled at a headmistress of a school who had two of her pupils kidnapped- made her hyperventilate and put her into a state of shock."

Unaware of their exchange, Sherlock unleashed his interview technique. "Let's start with the fact that at some point in early December, the landlord from whom you rent the premises for your business sent you and the other tenants a letter saying that the parade of shops was being put up for sale; any re-developer was likely to knock the whole lot down to build floors of posh flats above. He also told you that the rents of any new premises would be rising, and you and I both know that rise is to the point where you won't be able to afford them."

Beside her, Sally felt Barrow shifting his stance a little. "Bloody hell; we didn't know that."

"Yeah, he's just a mine of trivia, most of which is irrelevant." She just shook her head in disgust. "He just can't resist showing off."

Unable to hear her snide remark, Sherlock continued. " Your husband had always managed the business and dealt with these sorts of things, I imagine. His death must have been a shock."

She nodded, then sighed. "We'd been married for forty seven years; and then this theft…well, it's just all too much." Then Daphne lifted her chin. "Actually, I'm glad he wasn't alive to hear it; it would have broken his heart. He…"

Sherlock cut her off. "Here's another piece of bad timing. That letter about the intended sale came just a week after your shop re-fit finished- the project that your husband had planned, but then he died just as it got started. You had thought it best to complete it, except you let the builders go and brought in your brother-in-law instead to save costs. But your brother-in-law hasn't got your planning skills, does he, Mrs Farintosh?"

She shook her head sadly. As she drew breath to explain, Sherlock interrupted again, "The result was a project that overran both the budget and the timetable, damaging your Christmas sales- the key time of the year when you had hoped to get enough revenue in to pay off the construction debts."

This provoked another sigh from the elderly woman. "We had a terrible season as a result. All that money spent on a shop that might to have to close if and when they could find a buyer. It's just been one thing after another. We have no idea when the sale will go through; the landlord thinks it might be next autumn. All so distressing…" She looked like she was on the verge of tears again.

The lawyer patted her arm to comfort her and butted in, "I don't know how you got any of this information, but it's really none of your business, and it doesn't change the fact that her business was robbed."

Ignoring the lawyer, Sherlock tilted his head, looking at the woman with a keen eye that saw everything. "But, it does. It changes _everything_. Because the next letter arrived on the second of January telling you that the parade of shops had already been sold, and giving notice to quit the premises by the end of February. She didn't tell you, did she, Mister Grange?"

Sherlock smirked as he glanced at the lawyer. "I'll take your stunned silence as a 'yes'. Well, Mrs Farintosh, you decided to ignore that letter." He focused again on the grey haired woman. "Were you too embarrassed to admit any of this to your new _friend_ here? You are a procrastinator by nature, aren't you, Mrs Farintosh? I can tell, just by looking at the missing button on the sleeve of your otherwise immaculate jacket. You've got the button, but haven't got around to actually sewing it on."

Lestrade looked at the woman's sleeve, and it was clearly missing a button. Mrs Farintosh frowned and dropped her hand below the table, instinctively hiding the sleeve from further scrutiny.

Beside her watching the drama unfold, Sally could see Barrow frowning.

Sherlock continued. "So, a bit like a rabbit in front of car headlights, you were just shocked into inaction. You owed all this money, had no way of earning it before the shop had to close. You told no one that the shop had to close, because if you had, then the creditors would come after your house, your pension income. Time kept ticking on. Then on the 18th of January, the Rosenborg tiara came into the shop for repair. You'd forgotten about it in all the strain of the previous two months. Instead of returning it immediately, you accepted the delivery in the full knowledge that you couldn't actually repair it. The only logical reason to have done so was that you intended to have it stolen, and then to claim on the insurance."

Mrs Farintosh folded her hands together in front of her on the table, and lowered her eyes to look at them, rather than the Consulting Detective. Her lawyer jumped to her defence. "That's preposterous. You have the camera footage, the burglar is on it. Detective Inspector, your Sergeant told us that the man had been arrested."

Lestrade nodded. "Yes, but he's denying any involvement."

Sherlock gave the lawyer and the woman one of his fake smiles. "It took me a little while to figure it out. At first, I wondered if you, Mister Grange, were in on the deal. Perhaps you or her brother-in-law Bill Wright hired Penrose to do the theft. But, then I realised that would have involved paying him- and Mrs Farintosh needed every penny she could get from the insurance and the re-sale of the jewellery on the black market. What's the easiest way to get away with an inside job? Blame it on someone else. Someone predictable, whose habits can be counted on, who can be observed carefully so that the circumstantial evidence trail can be laid that will end in his conviction. Mrs Farintosh, you decided that Penrose was just the person to take the blame. After all, he'd passed your door once a week for the past decade."

The lawyer started shaking his head angrily. "Detective Inspector, what Holmes is suggesting is just ridiculous. First he says she can't plan anything, and then he says she's capable of doing just that. I ask you…does Mrs Farintosh look like a master criminal? She's a seventy-three year old housewife struggling to keep her late husband's business afloat."

Ignoring the man completely, Sherlock leaned back in his chair. "In this case, Mrs Farintosh, you turned to family for help. Your brother-in-law is a building contractor who happens to have experience in fitting security systems- that's why you used him for the shop re-fit. He's the one who knew just how to alter the time-clock on the hard drive so that the data feed would show footage taken on Wednesday being dated as Thursday. So, you stopped the clock- literally- by changing the date, so you could implicate an innocent man. You told your brother in law to buy and wear the same size and make of shoe as his patsy- the man you chose to frame for the burglary. You even thought of the idea of buying the same beer and curry that Penrose routinely buys, and getting Wright to toss it in the bin behind your shop. Nice touch that."

Sherlock was no longer smiling. "You may be a procrastinator, but you are a _planner_. Your mistake was to rely on your brother-in-law."

He leaned forward again and pointed at the woman. "The trouble was, you didn't count on the cold snap on the 23rd of January- the night you chose for the burglary. That night the temperature dropped to minus seven degrees, and a young homeless man decided that dossing down at the back of the laundromat was a good idea. The steam released by the washing machines and tumble driers is vented out back- keeping him warm. That meant he saw your brother-in-law putting the curry and beer into the bin at the back. And he was hungry."

The woman looked up again, with real pain in her eyes.

Sherlock drove the point home. "So, Matthews went into the bin and helped himself to the curry while your brother-in-law was doing the business in the shop and taking the tiara. Then Bill Wright comes out, he sees the boy, realises that he can be identified, panics and there's a fight. He didn't tell you about that until later, did he?"

Her eyes filled with tears.

"You didn't mean to kill him."

"Of course not."

"But it was your plan, Mrs Farintosh, that resulted in his death."

The woman did not reply, but kept her eyes down on the table.

The silence dragged on in the room, until finally Sherlock broke it with a statement. "Your plan; your _responsibility_."

Miserable, she shook her head. "It wasn't supposed to happen that way."

"Then your plan was to blame. And so were you."

"Yes." It came out in a whisper and then she started to cry.

Grange put his hand on her arm, trying to comfort her. "Daphne? This can't be true?!"

"I'm so sorry, Tom. I was going to tell you. So many times this week, I nearly told you. But, I was afraid of what you would say, that you would leave me. Without Harry now, I …just wanted to tell you that I'd sold the business and that we would have enough to retire together to Spain."

Grange seemed stunned by her revelation, but then the lawyer's training kicked in. "Don't say another word. You haven't been arrested, or charged, and you need to talk with a proper criminal lawyer before anything else is said."

She shook her head. "No, I'm sorry. Harry would want me to tell the truth. It was his business, and I so wanted to do the right thing, but the more I tried to ignore the problems, the worse things got. And then the plans…well, the theft was supposed to be a victimless crime. The insurance would pay for the loss of the tiara. I never intended anyone to get hurt." Her breath hitched. "That poor boy."

She reached into her sleeve and withdrew a dainty lace-edged handkerchief to clean up some of the mess her crying had made of her eye makeup. Then twisting it between her hands, she drew a deep breath. "It happened just as you said, Mister Holmes. I don't know how you could know but… once I realised that time had run out, I panicked and came up with this plan. I'm not an evil person. I never intended this to happen the way it did. Things just…snowballed, everything got more and more complicated."

Sherlock interrupted. "Where's the tiara now?"

"At home- under the floorboards. I was planning to break it up, and take the stones to Spain with me. There are five opals over 200 carats each; I could sell them anonymously through my husband's contacts. On the Algarve, the diamonds would be easy enough to sell on the black market. The Rosenborgs would get their insurance, and I'd get enough from the selling the opals and the diamonds from the tiara to clear all the debts and let me retire to Spain. The insurance and the sale of the other jewelery stolen from the shop would fund my Bill's kids' university tuition fees – that was his pay-off. The plan wasn't supposed to cost a life."

Sherlock did not hide his judgmental tone. "They say that opals are an unlucky jewel. For you, and for a homeless man, they were. Thank you, Mrs Farintosh for the confession. That will save a great deal of police time and public money, which has already been wasted enough in this case."

Pushing his chair back from the table, he stood up and looked back at the mirrored wall, aiming his next comment at Sally Donovan. " _My_ work is done here; I will leave you to explain to Detective Inspector Barrow where to find the jewels, and Sergeant Donovan can get the details from Bill Wright of how the young man died."

As he got to the door, Daphne Farintosh called out to him. "Mister Holmes….wait. How did you know? I mean, I planned it so carefully. I tried to think everything through and leave no evidence. What gave me away?"

He stopped at the door, but did not turn. "Human error. You believed your motives outweighed the possible damage to an innocent young man and a convicted criminal who had served his time. Your emotions led to procrastination, which created major opportunities for things to go wrong. In cases like these, planning is important, but timing is even more crucial. And getting a third party like your brother-in-law involved escalated the opportunity for things to go wrong. When you plan something, Mrs Farintosh, you become _responsible_ for it. It's your _fault_."

She sniffed back her tears. "That's a harsh judgment, Mister Holmes. I did it for _love_. I know that's no excuse, but I loved my husband, and wanted his business to close with dignity." She turned and looked at the lawyer, "and I will admit, I did it too to have a chance to love again."

Sherlock turned to face her again. "Then that was your mistake, Mrs Farintosh. _Love_ clouded your judgment. When I figured out how I would have done the crime successfully, on my own, I could see where your emotions led you to make errors. In short, I have more of a criminal mind than you do."

Beside her, Barrow muttered to Sally. "Bloody hell; I'm glad he's on our side."

She shook her head. "Don't you believe it, sir. Not for one minute. Sherlock Holmes is only ever on _his_ own side."

oOo

"We've got to stop procrastinating."

John followed up his comment with a nudge of his foot into a soft thigh, and lowered the newspaper so he could peer over the top. He'd just finished reading about Sherlock's latest case- the theft of an Opal Tiara. Its recovery had made all the weekend papers, in part because the Countess of Rosenborg had worn the newly recovered item to the Valentine's Day ball in London, organised by the charity, Save the Children. The front page photos of the Countess and a black tie wearing Sherlock had been a welcome alternative to the usual 'hat man' photo, which made John smile. _At least this time he can't complain._ The photo included his friend handing a check to the charity organisers; Sherlock had donated his fees.

Sherlock seemed to be well on the way to recovery, after Hartswood. This case sounded like something for the blog, and John made a mental note to get the full details when he next saw the Consulting Detective. John was sitting at one end of the sofa, feet up, working his way through the remnants of the Sunday papers. Mary was sitting at the other end, also with her feet up. She was reading a book- the latest chick lit bestseller. The author's name had made him feel uncomfortable- Liane Moriarty, and the title wasn't much better, Big Little Lies**.

She'd grinned at him when he'd pointed it out last week. "Really, John. It's just a coincidence. The name Moriarty is as common for the Irish as Smith is for the English- not her fault. It's a bit of silliness about ex-husbands and second wives, mothers and daughters and a bit of schoolyard scandal; nothing sinister. Pure escapism- think of it as the literary equivalent of your crap TV."

Every time he saw her reading it, John kept thinking about Sherlock's big little lie about being dead. He'd made his peace with his friend; the trials and tribulations of the return were behind them, and he'd been able to work a couple of little cases with Sherlock, even if he paid for it the next day with exhaustion from spending a late night on a crime scene. Mary had been really good about not missing him on those occasions.

He and Mary had just enjoyed a quiet Sunday- slept in, had breakfast late. John had watched a six nations Rugby match on the box, enjoying the sight of England thrashing the French for once in Paris' rugby home ground, Stade France. Mary had done the washing and ironing, and a leg of lamb was roasting for their evening meal.

"So, what are we procrastinating about?" She didn't look up from the book, when he nudged her with his foot again.

"You're the one who wants a proper wedding. It's just under four months away and we've not done a thing."

That made her sigh, and put the paperback down in her lap. "I know….I _know_. It's just, when we're working, we get home whacked and can just manage enough energy to feed our faces and fall asleep- you in front of the telly, me with my nose in a book. And on our days off, it's a mad dash to get the shopping in, do the errands and keep this place looking like a clean home instead of a hovel. Today is the first day in weeks that we've had a chance to put our feet up. When are we supposed to find time to do the planning?" She made a face and then smirked. "I know what I want; I'm just not good at organising this sort of event. Want to take it over?" She asked the question with her usual mischievous expression.

He laughed. "As if I could. I became a surgeon so I didn't have to do anything but concentrate on what I wanted to do. The theatre team just pointed me in the direction of the bits that needed fixing. Not exactly transferrable skills when it comes to planning a wedding."

Mary smirked. "As your general practice nurse, I can testify to your need for support staff; I swear if I didn't come in to tell you who the patient was and what their reason for the appointment was, you'd never get to the end of a shift. I think I realised you were a high maintenance co-worker when in my first week on Mister Johnson came out waving a script for HRT and asking me what it was for."

"Not my fault; the computer screen had mixed up his prescription records with his wife's."

She failed to stifle a giggle. "You are supposed to be able to notice that a man doesn't get HRT."

He gave her a beady eye. "So, if _you're_ so good at organising me, why not this wedding?"

She gave an exaggerated pout. "Out of my comfort zone. And don't tell me I should read all those stupid bridal magazines- or you'll end up with a horrid wedding that neither of us can afford. I'm just useless at this sort of thing."

John snorted. "This from a nurse who organised the work rotas, the drug supplies and the medical procedures for camps with thousands of refugees in Africa and the Philippines. Tell me again how you can't organise?"

She laughed and threw up her hands in mock surrender. " _Mea_ _culpa_ ; my guilty secret is out- but it's not what you think. I had _staff_ to do what I told them to do. No one ever accused me of being a finisher; delegation was my secret weapon."

"So, delegate. Don't people do this stuff for a living?"

She rolled her eyes. "Wedding planners cost a fortune. And they plan weddings for several hundreds of people, costing many tens of thousands of pounds. Our budget, need I remind you, is under five thousand for slightly less than fifty people. That's the sort of money these people charge for the planning service alone. So, out of the question."

He waved his hand. "What about Janine? Isn't helping with this sort of thing what a maid of honour is supposed to do?"

She snorted. "Yeah, as if she had the time. It was hard enough to get her to agree to be a bridesmaid, let alone the Maid of Honour. That bastard of a boss keeps her working all hours of the night and day. She gets paid a whacking great big salary to organise him, and has no time or energy left for something like this. I still don't know for sure if she'll even be able to attend."

John shrugged. "Then let's elope. Get married by someone on a beach somewhere."

She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "I'm an orphan, John. Everyone else got birthday parties, big Christmases, graduation celebrations. I used to tell myself that I didn't mind missing any and all of those, because when I got married, I'd make up for it- do things right. The church bells, the dress, the reception, cutting the cake- it's important to me. The start of my new life as Mrs John Watson needs to be done in style. Even if I've just admitted that I am not the right person to organise it."

He sighed, and picked up the Arts section of the newspaper. "Well, _someone's_ got to do it."

"What about the Best Man?"

John sniggered. "Yeah. Why didn't I think of that? The man who said weddings were not really his thing."

"You talked him into being your Best Man."

He peered over the newspaper at her, to see if she was pulling his leg.

Mary was smiling, but she wasn't teasing. "Seriously, I mean, think about it. If he could apply the same amazing degree of focus and attention to detail that he puts into solving a case towards planning our wedding, he'd tell us everything we needed to do, when and how much it would cost. He's organised. Just think of that wall behind the Baker Street sofa as a white board for wedding planning."

"You mean… ask him to treat our wedding the same way he would a crime scene? The mind boggles." He suppressed a giggle.

When she kept the straight look on her face, he folded the newspaper and stared at her. "Oh, God; you're really serious? But…he doesn't know a _thing_ about weddings. Not a clue. He's had to read up on what it means to be a best man, and quite frankly, some of his interpretations scare me."

"But that's the point I'm making. When he doesn't know something, he gets stuck in and does his research, becoming the overnight expert in a way that we can only dream about."

He struggled to think of Sherlock discussing things like reception menus and table cards. His mind could not get the idea to take root.

Mary was nothing if not persistent. "Besides, it will give us a reason to see him regularly in Baker Street, on something that _isn't_ a case. Maybe it will help get him used to the idea of being a friend, rather than you being just a crime scene fashion accessory. It could be the best way to convince him that the two of us getting married is not the end of us involving him in our lives."

He tried, without success, to moderate his look of scepticism.

She crossed her arms, looking a bit firm. "And another thing, John Watson. You get to play with him all the time, on the cases. I haven't had a legitimate reason to be around him, get him to relax around me and not see me as a threat. You _know_ that is important- Diane Goodliffe said so. It's about confidence building measures. This would give me a chance to forge my own relationship with him, so it's not all about _you_."

"Well, I'm glad you think so, because there is no way I am going to ask him to do this. It was hard enough to get him to realise that I wanted him to be best man. It was one of the most awkward conversations I've ever had with him. He was seriously blind-sided, and it made me realise that he _still_ hasn't got a clue how much I value our friendship."

She threw up her hands. "Well, what harm would there be in my asking him?"

John looked away for a moment, so he could think it through.

"It's a big ask, Mary. I still don't know what he _really_ thinks about us getting married. Would taking a role in planning it be….I don't know… a bit like rubbing his nose in it? If he isn't comfortable with the idea, you might be underestimating his reaction. When he gets confronted by stuff that makes him anxious, he can be quite rude."

She said quietly but firmly, "I'm a big girl, John. Leave him to me; I'll talk him round."

* * *

 **Author's note** : Full points to those who recall that the case of _Mrs Farintosh and the Opal Tiara_ is from ACD Canon, as a case referred to in The Speckled Band, but never described in any detail. *This Tiara is real. The parure– originally a set of necklace, earrings and brooch- of opals and amethysts- were owned by Princess Marie of Orléans, a French Princess by birth and a Danish Princess by marriage who died in 1909. The stones from the parure were refashioned into a tiara, which is now owned by Ruth, Countess of Rosenborg and wife of Prince Flemming Valdemar, Count of Rosenborg. It was last worn in public in 2012. **the book Mary is reading is also real, a New York Times best-seller in 2013.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: T minus 86**

* * *

Sherlock contemplated the woman seated on the sofa. He had turned his chair away from the fire to face in her direction, as Mrs Hudson poured a cup of her tea- Yorkshire Gold. He made a mental note to remind her to buy Darjeeling in future, if she was going to provide it for him. The guest uttered a hasty "No milk, thank you"- as the older woman offered her one of her chocolate bourbon biscuits.

The letter had simply said that Miss Mary Morstan recommended that she meet with him. On that basis, he had decided to see her. But, now seated before him, Mrs Cecil Forrester was a contradiction in terms. With a name like that one might have assumed that the woman would conform to the white anglo-saxon stereotypic housewife. Instead, Mrs Forrester was petite, in her early forties, dressed in a sari and had the darker complexion of someone from southern India.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson. You can leave us now."

His landlady gave him a little bit of a glare. "I'm not your housekeeper, Sherlock. Nor your personal shopper, waitress or doorman, for that matter." But she did as she was told, and left.

"I regret, Mrs Forrester, that I have no Nilgiri tea to offer you."

His deduction was rewarded by a smile, and an eyebrow lift of surprise. "Oh, you are so clever! How did I betray myself? How did you know?"

"That you are a native Tamil speaker? The accent is clear at least to my ear, and your written English in the letter is impeccable, which would not be the case if you were born in this country. Where were you educated in India?"

"In Coonoor -the Providence College for Women, and the Stanes Anglo Indian Higher Secondary School," she said proudly.

"I was right. Your look of slight horror at Mrs Hudson's offer of milk gave you away. I apologise for her taste in tea, but perhaps you have become inured to execrable British teabags. You are from a tea-growing family."

She nodded, but then a shadow of regret passed over her dark eyes. "I _was_ , I should say. Long ago and far away. I'm British now. Mrs Cecil Forrester. My husband's name, but it suffices. My first name is Ada."

He continued his deductions. "So, the oldest child, for that is the meaning of your name in Tamil." His eyes focused intently on her face for a moment. "But unusually, you are an only child, so the other meaning of your name- "special one" is apt. I think one of your parents was Anglo-Indian, probably your father, so he chose a name that also has meaning in English, 'nobility' and 'adornment'."

She nodded, but he sensed a sadness in her.

Sherlock tried again, "Forrester is also appropriate for someone who originated in the forests of the Western Ghats. How did you come to England?"

"I won a scholarship, to study marketing at the LSE. The Nilgiri Planters' Association paid my fees and UPASI -the United Planters Association of South India- paid my maintenance grant."

He looked into his own cup of tea, as if divining a future, or in this case a past. A quirk of his lips, then, "Therein must lie a reason for some of the heartache you mentioned in your letter. You did not return, as you were expected to do. You married outside of caste, outside of Tamil Nadu, repudiated the investment in you made by those who paid your fees. Instead you chose to live 8,000 kilometres from what your family and sponsors called your home. A courageous move."

She nodded, but said nothing, as if not trusting herself to do so.

Sherlock remembered a particularly awkward part of Moriarty's network in south India, in Kochi. The heat and the monsoon rain had been hard to endure. The commercial hub of Kerala state and home to the southern Indian naval fleet, Kochi's crime syndicate was reaping the benefits of a port construction boom that relied on several city officials being dark angels. His attention started to drift, memories flooded back of the Cochin Shipyard, where India's first aircraft carrier was being built. The network's fingers had been well into that pie.

"Mister Holmes?"

His eyes snapped back to Mrs Forrester.

"I have come to you, Mr. Holmes," she said, "because Mary Morstan suggested to me that you could help me to unravel a little domestic complication. I know that you are a very busy man, and that the crimes you deal with these days seem so …" She ground to a halt, with a perplexed look. "I do not know if it is correct English to refer to a crime as 'grand'- that implies it is not horrible. What the papers said about the slavery gang was horrible, and yet, your work to catch them was grand, too." She gave him an embarrassed smile. "My little problem seems too trivial to trouble you, but Miss Morstan insisted that if I wrote to you that you would at least give me a hearing."

He nodded. "Miss Morstan knows something of my interests. Not every case is the sort that attracts the press. If I had my way, _none_ of my work would do so. My only criterion for agreeing to take a case is that it not be boring. Please tell me that your case is not boring."

She gave that odd head waggle that to a westerner might seem like a negative, but he knew to be an acknowledgement that she understood.

"Then you may begin."

"I have lived with my husband for eighteen years in Colliers Wood. I am registered with the GP practice where Doctor Watson works, but I see a lady doctor there. It is some distance from my home, but she is Tamil, so I feel happy going to see her. I was waiting for my appointment, when I realised that something was missing from my handbag -a small amulet, a Ganesha carved in wood from the Nageia tree, native to the forests of the Ghat."

Sherlock stirred. "It has _sentimental_ value," he said dryly. He loathed this sort of case- missing pets, treasured souvenirs, lost briefcases- excruciatingly boring. He would have to speak with Mary.

"Yes, it was carved from wood that came from a tree on my father's farm. When I left to come to London, I took only a few personal items, because I thought I would be going home again." She looked at the cup of tea again, decided against drinking it and sat the cup and saucer back on the table. "When I realised that the Ganesha was missing, I became very distressed. The Ganesha is important to me; do you know the Hindu deities, Mister Holmes?" She looked up, expecting him to shake his head.

His lip gave a tiny quirk of amusement. He'd had a lecture from a doctor in Mumbai, when he was healing from an infected knife wound. "The elephant-headed god, the symbol of success, fortune and prosperity, and of overcoming obstacles, also known as Ganapati, Vinayaka or Pillaiyar. The patron deity of the arts and sciences. Interestingly, Lord Ganesha is believed to place obstacles in the path of those who need to be checked, and is the destroyer of vanity, pride and selfishness." It was that role of the deity which had led to the lecture from Doctor Parasathwarthy.

She looked down at her hands, now clasped in her lap. "Yes…to all that. But, more, too. The amulet reminds me of the price I have paid to come to live in England and to marry for love. My father in Coonoor died six months ago, and the family tea farm has passed to my mother. It is my uncle – her brother- now who works the plantation for her. When my father died, my uncle wrote to me in the harshest terms, telling me that I had disgraced the family name, and that the punishment for my selfishness is that I have been unable to have children of my own. He told me that I should never return home." Ada came to a halt, as if the memory of that letter was too painful for anything but silence.

Somewhat impatiently, Sherlock urged her on, "Please, continue." He really was going to have to speak to Mary; this was beginning to sound tediously domestic.

Chastised, Ada sat up straighter, and resumed her explanation. "The Ganesha was just the last of many such disappearances. Several months ago, I began to notice that small things in my house were vanishing. Nothing of value, I must say. The first to go was an old hairbrush, one that I use each night. I have had it for many, many years, and it always lives on my dressing table. Then one night, it was just…gone. At first, I thought that I had misplaced it, but I knew that was not possible, because I never move it."

"A week later- on the same night of the week- it's always on Wednesday, I started to prepare our evening meal, and the tawa was gone."

He must have looked confused, because she rushed to explain. "Of course, you would not know that this is a kitchen utensil- a flat iron pan used to cook chapatti or roti."

He nodded, conceding his ignorance of such matters. _Utensils…._ He wondered whether this could be even worse than that request to find the rabbit, Bluebell. Actually, though, the glow-in-the-dark rabbit had proved rather important in the solution of the Baskerville case. Sherlock stifled his impulse to show her to the door.

Fortunately, Mrs Forrester had not known of his interior monologue, and continued blithely, "The next week, it was a CD- one of my favourites. The singer Kavita Krishnamurthy Subrahmaniam. She's a famous singer, in a lot of Tamil films. My mother and I used to sing along. Now gone- I looked through every CD we have; Cecil is meticulous about filing them, so careful. And it was just gone."

"I began to suspect the cleaning company. My husband insists on having someone come in once a week. Perhaps the maid was taking these things. I told the company that I was ending the contract but I have to give a two week notice. Then this week- a photograph of my father in Coonoor was stolen. Well, I say stolen, but it was on my phone, and when I thumbed through my folder, well- it was gone. Someone had deleted it! I told my husband, but he dismissed the idea as absurd." She dropped her voice to sound more like a man- and one with a south London accent, saying "No one would take such trivial things; a thief would take the silver, rob your purse of money, or take a key so they could break in and steal things they could sell on the black market or a boot sale. And as for deleting a photo, all that takes is a slip of a careless finger. And losing things is more likely than someone stealing a frying pan or an ancient hairbrush missing half its bristles."

Back in her own voice, she continued. "I was so shocked, Mr Holmes. My husband and I have never argued before this, but he thinks I am being silly. Then he asked me to go to the doctor, and check if forgetfulness and losing things like this is a sign of early dementia or some illness. It has…destroyed me; I am in a constant state of…" She raised her hand to her mouth in distress. "That is why I was at the surgery, and then when I discovered the Ganesha missing..." She was on the verge of tears. "Perhaps I am going mad." The tears started to escape.

To forestall further eruptions, Sherlock roused himself. "A hair brush, a photo, a CD, a pan, and then your amulet- an unusual collection, I must say. And yet much can be revealed by mundane and boring items. The devil is in the detail, Mrs Forrester, and this suggests planning, careful planning. Events like these are rarely random." He steepled his fingers below his chin. "Let me think." He closed his eyes.

A few minutes later, he opened his eyes and sniffed. "You did not stay for the doctor's appointment." It was a statement, not a question.

She looked up, surprised. "No, I didn't; how did you know that? I was so upset that I cancelled. I mean, it's embarrassing. I am _not_ going crazy." Then she started to cry again. "That's when Miss Morstan asked me what was upsetting me and I told her the story. She told me to write my letter to you and to mention her name." She wiped her tears and tried to put an English stiff upper lip on.

He gave her a hesitant smile. "Mrs Forrester, rest assured you are not 'going crazy'. Far from it. All of the items, no matter how small or trivial they might seem- all of them were chosen because they remind you of your home in India. While any one item's loss is insignificant, you must keep in mind the big picture, what their loss means to you and why the thief wanted to inflict that on you. How old is your mother?"

Startled by the sudden question, Ada answered "eighty two. She had me late; my father had almost despaired of ever having a child."

"And you are in your early forties."

She nodded. "Forty two."

"Then my advice is simple. Go back to the doctor, or if you want confirmation even before that, go to a pharmacy when you leave here and purchase an over-the-counter pregnancy test."

Her eyes grew enormous. "What ?… but…that is not possible." It came out in a whisper.

"On the contrary. Women as late as their late forties can and do conceive. In your case, it may well be a genetic proclivity, and inherited condition."

"But…" Ada looked bewildered. "What does that have to do with the thefts?"

"Everything. I do have some bad news however. It is likely that your mother is unwell, and your uncle is concerned that when she dies, the ownership of the plantation will come to you- and to your English husband. If you do have a child, then your uncle will be cut out of the inheritance entirely. I suspect that if you were to interview the cleaning company, someone with connections to your uncle- a friend of a friend of a relation, as they say- has paid your maid to steal particular items that are related to your past. The thefts are designed to stress you, to keep you in a state of high anxiety and to disrupt your good relations with your husband. In my experience, it does not take much to de-stabilise a marriage, and this anxiety would limit the chances of a pregnancy happening in the first place or being carried to full term. Your uncle is simply trying to protect his interests, at your expense."

She looked thunderstruck. "Then, I am not going crazy?"

He gave her an odd look. "While pregnancy can do strange things to female hormones and I have been told by some so afflicted that it can make one more emotionally volatile, it is not generally associated with mental instability."

She laughed. "You are a bearer of good news, Mister Holmes, for which I am eternally grateful. Please may I congratulate you?! I am much impressed by your kindness and skill. You are indeed a great man." She stood up and nodded, her hands together. _"Namaste._ "

And with that, Mrs Cecil Forrester bowed again, and left.

oOo

The third time she pressed the buzzer, it was just that little bit firmer and twice as long. The first two times she'd pushed the doorbell of 221b's first floor flat, there had been no response. Above her, the lights were on in the living room, and she could hear the faint sounds of a violin. So, Sherlock was home, just ignoring the bell.

Mary wondered whether she should take it personally, but then remembered that John had told her the story of the time that Sherlock had cut the doorbell wires. _Maybe, he's just avoiding the paparazzi._ The return of the Rosenborg's Opal Tiara to its rightful owners in Denmark had led to yet more press coverage. After solving Tilbury and the Fight Club cases, Sherlock was on a roll; the newspapers were now happy to give him all the positive headlines they could, as if that would atone for their role in his 'demise' two and a half years ago.

 _Come on, Sherlock; answer the door._ She needed him to do this, to accept the role of planning their wedding, and not just for the reasons she had told John about. Mary knew that her deal with Mycroft* was predicated on keeping the boys working together; she had to be seen to be actively promoting a closer relationship. It was the price of his silence, his tolerance, the willingness of the man who was the British Government to look the other way about her past. And it was a small price to pay; she'd seen the positive changes in John Watson since Sherlock's return.

Changing tactics, Mary gave Mrs Hudson's bell a quick push, and was rewarded by the sound of footsteps. That's when she realised that there was no peep-hole. As she heard the door latch being opened, Mary decided to have words with Sherlock. For the security of an elderly woman living on her own, Mrs Hudson needed to know who was on the other side of the door before she actually opened it.

"Oh, it's you, Mary! Do come in, my dear." Mrs Hudson beamed.

As she came in the door, the landlady looked over Mary's shoulder, down the street a bit. "Is John with you?"

"No, I'm flying solo; I'm a woman on a mission." Mary gave Mrs Hudson a cheeky smile. "I know his nibs is upstairs, because I can hear the violin, but why do you think he's ignoring me? Is it safe to go up there?"

The elder woman's voice took a conspiratorial tone. "Well, you know Sherlock. He's liable to be rude to anyone and everyone, but he can't hear the bell because he has those things on his ears." She gestured as if she was putting on a pair of headphones. "He didn't even hear me when I was up there a moment ago, taking him up a pot of tea and some date flapjacks I just baked. So, just go up, sit yourself down in John's chair and help yourself to a cuppa. I expect he'll realise you're there eventually."

The thought of it made them both share a giggle. Mary then headed up the stairs, not bothering to avoid the squeaky stair that John had told her about. When she got to the landing and slowly pushed open the door to the living room, it was to the sight of Sherlock, with his back to the door. Despite it being just four o'clock in the afternoon, he was still in his dressing gown over pyjamas. The headphones were on and his eyes were closed as he played the violin. For a moment she stood mesmerised by the sight of his lithe playing, the eloquence and emotion of the notes being given physical shape; with swoops and arching arms, he was almost dancing to the music.

After a moment of enjoying the view, Mary poured herself a cup of Mrs Hudson's tea and helped herself to a flapjack. She recognised the music vaguely, but couldn't put a finger on the name. Then her eye fell on the empty case by the CD player on the bookshelf by John's chair. She plucked it off and sat down to read the handwritten sleeve: Bruch's first Violin Concerto in G Minor. The scrawled writing simply said _third movement 7.32 minutes/soloist_ _track deleted._ So, a piece where the violin part was missing- something he could play along to. She giggled. Who would have thought of it- karaoke for violin? As she settled back to listen she spotted the music stand was in its usual place in the corner by the window; he was playing a piece he knew by heart.

Sipping the tea, she listened to his performance, her imagination struggling to supply the parts played by the orchestra that she couldn't hear, but Sherlock clearly could. From John's stories about his violin playing, she had not realised that he was such an accomplished concert musician. "Two cats fighting" was a particular piece that John had moaned about.

Sherlock's playing eventually climbed to a crescendo and ended with a dramatic flourish and a swish of the bow, but he stood listening, still with his eyes closed, to what she imagined was the last bit of the orchestra's finale. Then his shoulders dropped. She started applauding, wondering if he would hear it.

He whirled about, at the same time shoving the violin onto the table, wrenching off the headphones and dropping into a fighting stance, wielding the bow as if it were a weapon.

"Oh, Sherlock: I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to startle you!" Mary realised her mistake; given what he'd been through over the past few years, the unexpected sound of someone intruding could provoke a flashback.

She watched as Sherlock recognised her and then got his rapid breaking back under control and relaxed his shoulders. Raising his eyes for the briefest of moments to glance into the kitchen behind her and then down the hall, Sherlock saw her, but she knew he was looking for John.

"I'm on my own."

Mary watched the effect of her words. As he put the bow down, the grey green eyes looked away from her and became wary; two creases formed on his brow. _He's trying to figure out why I'm here alone._

"Sherlock, I won't bite. And just because I'm on my own doesn't mean I'm going to take back anything I said when I've been with John and you at Hartswood. He knows I'm here. You can trust me."

He stood there, uncertainty telegraphed in every fibre of his being. He had not yet uttered a single word; nor would he look directly at her. _Oh, God. I've really rattled him._

She decided to take a slight detour before coming to the point. _No need to frighten the horses._ It was an English phrase she had come to appreciate. "Someone- a recording engineer? - removed the soloist's track and you play in that space?"

Sherlock nodded, then decided to demonstrate his nonchalance by pouring himself a cup of tea and sitting down in his leather and chrome chair. He still wasn't really looking at her, but waiting, cautiously.

Mary thought about it. Baker Street was his sanctuary, and she'd just invaded, without his permission- a sneak attack. If her mission to get him to take on the wedding planning was to succeed, she needed to give him the upper hand again, make him feel comfortable again. She decided to take a risk.

"Okay- I get that your prodigious memory means you don't need the sheet music in front of you. That's impressive. And you can obviously play with the orchestra."

He nodded again.

"Could you keep in time, if you weren't listening? Let's experiment." She put the challenge into her tone, and hoped he would rise to the bait.

He tilted his head in acceptance of the unspoken challenge. Without a word, he got to his feet, and then handed her the earphones. The long lead wasn't needed; the CD player was within reach of where she was sitting. He reached over to the CD player and reversed to the start of the last movement before pausing it. Then Sherlock pulled the plug of the earphones just out of the socket, before picking up the instrument again.

As he lifted the bow, he said quietly, "I need to hear the first note of the orchestra- it's the equivalent of the conductor's baton. Then you can push the plug in; it will cut the audio play off the speakers and onto the headphones. Then only you will know if I am keeping in time."

 _Game on._ She grinned, slipped on the headphones as her hand hovered over the CD player. "Ready?"

He nodded, and she pushed the play button. As soon as the orchestra began, she pushed to headphone jack all the way in, keeping her eye on the digital counter.

Twenty three seconds later, he struck the bow across the strings and was off. It sounded right, but she didn't know the piece well enough to be sure. When the counter hit 45 seconds, he finished his section, and the orchestra resumed a beat later in full flow, as if he had been listening. The second time he hit the entrance mark perfectly, she started laughing. At four minutes into the piece, she pulled the jack out to show him that he was in perfect synch.

"How do you do that?!"

He stopped playing, and the orchestra carried on. She stopped the recording as he shrugged. "I know the music, and what each instrument is supposed to be playing at each moment. I don't have to hear it."

"What happens if it's a different orchestra or a different conductor?"

"This is the newest release. The Czech Philharmonia under the baton of Jakob Hrusa. The soloist is Nicola Benedetti."

She raised a sceptical eyebrow. "So, if it was by someone else, you could _still_ keep in time?"

He shrugged again. "Sarah Chang plays it faster with the Dresdner Phil under Masur; whereas Maxim Vengerov with the Leipzig Gewanthaus under the same conductor uses a slower, richer tempo."

"And you could match either?" She didn't have to fake her amazement.

"I have an eidetic memory for music; so long as I've heard them play the piece, it's not difficult for me to match their style and timing."

"Why would you do that? Why not just play it the way _you_ want to play?"

"That's obvious." He looked puzzled.

"Is it?"

"Yes, of course. The orchestra has been recorded when working with another violinist; it can't possibly stay in synch with me, or I with it, if I was not playing with them when they recorded. Besides, it's more challenging to match the different styles of playing. I know six versions. Simple, really."

She snorted. "Yeah, simple. Just keep track of what everyone else is supposed to be doing at the same time as managing your own playing, oh and let's level up so that it matches your memory of how another violinist does it. That's… well…" She giggled. "I can't resist using John's signature phrase: _That's_ _amazing_." Mary found herself broadening the smile into a grin. She didn't need John to be Sherlock's cheerleader on this occasion; she'd just realised that the man's brain could do extraordinary things even when they didn't involve murder cases. The thought emboldened her.

"In fact, that's actually why I've come to talk to you. I want you to do something for me and John that is remarkably similar to what you are doing here."

He sat down, cradling the violin in his lap. "You want me to play, for you?" His surprise had something else in it, a scarcely concealed delight. "…at the wedding?"

"Yes, of course. Now that you've been kind enough to audition…" she smirked. "But that's not why I'm here. John and I have a problem, and we need _you_ to solve it."

Now she had his attention. "You know John better than anyone. You've probably deduced just about everything that can be known about someone- including things he doesn't even know about himself." She could tell by the look in his eyes that she'd said a truth he recognised. "…and things he probably doesn't want to know or anyone else to know about, either, so please _don't_ put those into the best man speech."

He looked back at his violin in his lap, and seemed to retreat a bit. She gave him a reassuring smile. "Relax, I'm not here about the speech. Our problem is more fundamental than that. I'm afraid there may not be a wedding, if you don't help us."

His head snapped up and he did not hide his shock; he blurted out, "Second thoughts?" He actually made proper eye contact with her for the first time.

She shook her head. "No, not from me, or from John. We _both_ want to be married. It's the process that has him spooked. Has he said anything to you about the actual wedding? The ceremony?"

"No."

She saw that he was lying. "Oh dear; he _has._ I knew it. He just hates the idea of the event itself."

The two wrinkles were back on his forehead.

"Oh Sherlock; you aren't _that_ good a liar, especially not about John. He might be fooled when you're fibbing, but I know the truth when I see it. And that's our problem. I need someone to help me get him through the process; I need _you._ "

"I don't understand."

She smirked, and then said with a bit of mischief, "Ouch, admitting that must be annoying."

The grey green eyes narrowed, but he must have heard the teasing tone, so did not seem to take offence.

She drew a deep breath and launched in. "It's the girly stuff he doesn't get. You know- the church, the dress, the cake, the reception. He'd prefer if we went straight to the honeymoon."

"The sex holiday…" Sherlock murmured.

She giggled. "Yes. That's true. Even living together as we do, we've both been working, and we've never taken a holiday together. That part he _gets_. But the rest of it, he sees as a chore."

"Then elope. Isn't that what people do?"

"I'm not 'people'. My parents died when I was five and while it wasn't a terrible childhood, it was a case of distant relatives playing pass the parcel with me- and I was always a hanger-on, never the centre of attention. I always told myself that if I was lucky enough to find someone I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, I would do it in style. Properly. Not cut corners or make do. So, I really want a proper wedding. It doesn't have to be big or grand." She gave a sheepish look. "We can't afford anything like that anyway. But, the registry office thing? Well, it makes my blood run cold."

Now Sherlock was no longer hiding how perplexed he was. "What does any of this have to do with me? Why are you telling me this?"

"Because if _you_ get involved in planning this wedding, then John will want to be, as well. You've talked him into chasing across roof tops, staking out criminal hideouts for hours, nights on end, in the freezing cold. And I'm not just talking about thrill seeking stuff that appeals to the adrenaline junkies you both are. You've got him to do things that he would never in his right mind agree to. He's told me about the time you made him dress up as a woman and wear make-up, just to spy on a suspect at a brothel."

"It was for a case."

"Yes dear, I know that. But I also know John. He wouldn't have done that, unless _you_ asked him to. So, in the _case_ of the wedding, our wedding, if you were involved, he'd play along. Might even enjoy it."

"Involved? In what way?" His look of total befuddlement was actually rather endearing. _How can someone so intelligent be quite so…innocent?_ This was the man who had single-handedly destroyed a global criminal network, and yet was not able to fathom the direction in which she was nudging him.

She took her courage in both hands. "I want you to plan it. Plan our wedding. Tell us what decisions have to be made by when, what the options are, and in what order we need to make them. Project manage the whole thing, from start to finish. You have the attention to detail that both John and I lack." As she explained the proposition, Mary watched consternation taking hold of Sherlock's expression.

"But…I don't…I know nothing about weddings. I'm the least likely person in the world to know anything about the…the girly bits, as you call it. I don't even believe in the institution, let alone all the faffing about people do at one."

His look of dismay was now bordering on panic. He started waved his hands about, almost flailing. "Parties…people, noise, all that smiling; horrible clothes, pointless religious mumbo jumbo, rituals." Sherlock seemed to realise that his hands were doing something not quite right, so pulled them back in front of him, and grabbed his violin in both hands to re-assert control.

He drew a breath, then asked "What part of your experience of me says that I'd be comfortable being involved in planning such a torture, let alone participating in it on the day?"

She played the first card. "You agreed to be John's best man. Supporting him by planning the weeding is your role, part of being best man."

The reply was instantaneous. "No, it isn't. I know that now. What you've described is the role of the moth…" He stopped.

"Oh, you remembered….orphan." She waved, smiling. "That's the trouble with learning a plan from a book or on the internet. It never prepares you for the real thing. That needs contingency planning, calculating the risk factors, weighing them up, building the critical path. You know, the stuff you did so well to take down Moriarty's network. Sherlock, you have _form_ when it comes to planning."

He looked unconvinced. "What about the Best Woman…maid…matron person?"

She shook her head. "So not going to happen. Her boss is a slave driver; I can't even be sure she'll get away on the day. That's what I meant about real life intruding. If I rely on her, it will be another year before we are married."

"You say that as if that would be a _bad_ thing."

"It would be. Tick, tock…my biological clock is ticking. The older I get, the less likely it is that John will get the chance to be the father he always wanted to be. Would you deny him that, just because you don't know what's involved in planning a wedding? Anyway, it took you all of a couple of days and you became the expert at being a Best Man. You can learn anything, if you think it's worth it. Isn't John's happiness worth it?"

She wondered if Sherlock realised how much his face communicated emotions when he was too busy thinking to bother concealing them. Mary pointed at the wall over the sofa. "You can use your evidence board to lay it all out for us, what needs to be done first, which decisions depend on the others. Plan it- in all its detailed glory. That's what you're good at."

He looked with utter confusion at the wall, adorned with its yellow smiley face. "But that's for crimes. Your wedding isn't a crime."

"Glad to hear it, especially coming from you, Sherlock. Listen, you've already agreed to be there as Best Man- and that means you're willing to cope with the people, the party, the rituals that you probably think are either silly or pointless. You agreed to it _because John asked_. Well, I'm asking you for his sake to do the rest of it, too, because John _needs_ you to, don't you see? And I do, too."

He blinked rapidly, and continuously for a few seconds. Then he suddenly picked up his violin from his lap and put it under his chin, an almost instinctive reflex.

She watched him pluck the strings quietly. She knew it was like a security blanket now; he'd learned enough about the EMDR techniques. She was stressing him. He knew it; she knew it. He knew that she knew it, and yet was doing it anyway.

Finally, he said quietly, "You're asking a lot."

"I know. It's in a good cause. John wants to be married. You know that. With your help, he can actually enjoy the process of getting there. If you need another incentive, then consider these two."

Mary dropped the teasing tone, and gave it her best shot. "First, it will give us an excuse to come over here a couple of times a week for a planning session. John won't try to duck it if it's done at Baker Street. Diane Goodliffe says it is important for both of you to find ways to interact on a day-to-day basis to rebuild your relationship. And I want to be part of that- so this is one thing that the three of us can work on together."

Then she delivered what she hoped would be the deciding factor: "And when he's here, it will be easier for you to raise the case of John's stint as Guy Fawkes- that's unsolved, and it worries me that he seems to want to forget all about it. I can't- and I'm guessing that you can't, either. Sherlock, I need your help to keep John alive so I get to marry him. If planning the wedding will help you figure out who would want to hurt John, then just put that marvelous mind of yours to work on our behalf. Sherlock, please."

The same three strings were being plucked over and over. She shut up and let him think it through. Almost three minutes later, she got her answer.

"I'll think about it."

 _Gotcha._ She smiled.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Kudos to those of you who spotted the reversal of the ACD canon: In _The Sign of Four_ it is Mary who comes to Sherlock. "I have come to you, Mr. Holmes," she said, "because you once enabled my employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester, to unravel a little domestic complication. She was much impressed by your kindness and skill." "Mrs. Cecil Forrester," he repeated thoughtfully. "I believe that I was of some slight service to her. The case, however, as I remember it, was a very simple one." Somehow, given where Series Three took Mary, it seemed appropriate to reverse the roles. *The deal between Mary and Mycroft was covered in _Devonshire Squires_ and _Magpie One for Sorrow._


	4. Chapter 3

**Magpie: Two For Joy**

 **Chapter Three: T minus 86 to 81**

* * *

 **Author''s Note** : A bumper chapter of 11,000 words to keep you going over the holiday. And please remember that in my stories, Sherlock's parents are dead, and very different from Cumberbatch's parents.

* * *

"How'd it go?"

Mary saw her reflection smirk in the mirror over the bathroom sink. She'd made a mental bet that John wouldn't be able to resist raising the question tonight. She responded with a cheery, "I think he's coming round to the idea. Just have to wait until he processes it all."

She heard a chuckle from John, who was getting into bed. "Yeah, it took him the best part of two minutes' worth of silent panic before he could get a word out when I asked him to be Best Man. I still think you are asking the impossible. If you really have talked him into doing this, then you are _amazing_."

"Of course I'm amazing. Why else would you be marrying me?" Mary went back to brushing her teeth, and neither she nor John raised the topic again for four days.

On the fifth day, the summons came- simultaneously, to both their phones, on their way home from the surgery. John managed to get his out before she located hers in the bottom of her handbag.

 **6.10pm If you are available, come to Baker Street. If you are unavailable, come anyway. SH**

John frowned at his phone. "A bit of a command performance. He does know that it's a forty minute train and tube ride from here to there."

"Yeah- but what else were we going to do tonight? We're available."

"Sure?"

It had been a long day, and she seemed to have spent all of it on her feet, but the chance to find out if Sherlock had accepted her proposition was too strong- she had to go. "Yep. I'm sure."

John took her by the arm, and turned her around. "It'll be quicker if we walk to Tooting Bec station."

Although it was the rush hour, because they were going into London rather than escaping to the suburbs, it was possible to find seats on the tube. But, not together- two seats together on the underground were about as rare as hens' teeth. So Mary picked up an abandoned copy of the Evening Standard and flicked through it until she found the crossword. She kept an eye on John, across the carriage and six seats to the left. He just seemed to zone out. She knew he wasn't all that keen on the tube, after his experience in the tunnel under Westminster. _Don't blame him._

But, at least that life-threatening episode had a known perpetrator who was, according to John, "no longer a threat to anyone." He'd been close-mouthed to her about the bomber's identity, and the press coverage had died down when no one had come forward to claim responsibility for a bomb that didn't go off. But, even without being told, she suspected that Mycroft knew, and Sherlock knew, and maybe John did, too. And the fact that none of the three seemed worried about it suggested that she could relax about that particular threat.

But no one had yet come up with a plausible suspect for the attempt to kill John by drugging him and then putting him into the bonfire. Whenever she raised it with John, he just grimaced. The one time she'd mentioned it to Sherlock, he'd just said tersely, "no idea." It worried her, constantly. In particular, it worried her that the person behind it had sent _her_ the skip code. If it was just because Sherlock was back, then they would have sent the message to him. That she had been targeted was a real problem, and one she couldn't ignore.

When she allowed herself to stop to think about it, the incident raised all sorts of unpleasant questions that needed to be answered, and yet if they were answered, then those answers might compromise her current identity. It scared her, deeply. She had shed her past and wanted nothing more to do with it. But she was all too aware how precarious her current situation was. Her arrangement with Mycroft was clear- he would investigate her background more thoroughly if she tried to stand in the way of John and Sherlock re-establishing their relationship. So far, she'd felt no need- in fact, the reverse. She loved John when he was grieving for his friend. And she had watched with amazement as Sherlock's return brought her fiancé back to life, fully, in a way that she had not realised was possible. It healed a missing part of John, and she loved the new version even more than the previous one.

Luckily, Sherlock had so far respected her secrets. That he knew she was not all that she claimed to be was highly likely, yet the man had been very careful not to interfere, or to use that knowledge against her. But that did not mean she was home free. While the Morstan identity was a strong one, it certainly wasn't fool-proof. And neither Sherlock nor Mycroft were fools. _It's like walking a tightrope._ Sometimes, she was so frightened by it all that it was hard to keep moving forward.

When she and John arrived at Baker Street and he used his key to enter, Mary hoped that her scheme to have Sherlock plan the wedding would keep her balancing act going.

When they got into the living room, a quick glance showed it to be empty, so John went through the kitchen and down the hall. "Sherlock?" He stopped at the door to the bathroom and knocked. "You in the loo?"

A muffled "bath" was followed by a splash in answer.

John rolled his eyes. "If it's convenient, we're here as you asked. If it's inconvenient, tough. Get out and tell us what you wanted."

There was a chuckle that came from the bath, and the shared memory brought a smile to John's face too as he headed back to the living room.

Mary stood staring at the wall over the sofa, eyes wide with amazement. "I think this is a 'Yes', don't you?"

The wall had been neatly sectioned off- a series of printed labels were pinned up: guest list, church, reception venue, catering, transport, gifts, attire. Under each another set of colour-coded index cards, also labelled. Under church, there were cards marked denomination, vicar, flowers, order of service, music- entry, choir, music-exit, bell ringers, organist, photographer, ushers….There was a large map of the UK in the centre of the wall, and what looked like a Gantt chart timeline printed out on an A3 sheet just below it.

Mary just stood back, trying to take it all in. She smiled, as John came alongside her. She watched his face as he surveyed the wall, and caught a hint of discomfort under his bemusement.

John pointed at one label at the far right hand side of the wall. "Sex holiday? What's that?"

She giggled. "What he calls the honeymoon." John smothered a laugh.

She threaded her arm between his elbow and his side, pulling him closer to her, and was rewarded with a quiet whisper in her ear: "You are a bloody miracle worker, Mary Morstan. Who would have believed it?"

"Before he gets out, I need to say something." Mary turned to face John and held him in her arms. Keeping her voice low, she said, "Sherlock needs this, John. He needs to feel valued by you, and not just because of his crime solving skills. You're not with him on that many cases now, so he's got to get positive reinforcement from you for the wedding planning that he is doing for us. That means, however tedious you might think the details are…"

He shook his head, "not tedious."

"Hush…I know it's not your scene. But, by letting him be a part of it, and by you being willing to get involved, too, he'll come to realise that our getting married is okay. It won't change things between you two. So try to put a brave face on it, please? For his sake?"

As they heard the sound of bare feet coming down the corridor and into the kitchen, John raised his voice, so he would be heard. "Sherlock Holmes, Wedding Planner…well, if the cases ever dry up, you've found a second career."

"No. Only you. I would never, ever consider doing this for anyone else. I'd rather starve on the street." The baritone was smothered, sounding odd.

John turned to see what was going on, and realised that Sherlock was standing there in just a pair of trousers, bare-chested, his head covered in a towel that was being scrubbed vigorously to dry his hair.

Mary watched as a fond smile of bemusement blossomed on her fiancé's face. "Sherlock, you'll catch cold if you walk about the flat like that. Get something warmer on."

The towel was pulled aside and a tousled head peered out. "You said, if inconvenient..."

John laughed. "I was joking. Go finish dressing. We can wait."

"Don't blame me. You were twenty one minutes earlier than I anticipated, because you walked further in order to take the underground, rather than the train before changing to the tube."

Mary's eye's widened. "Have you been watching us? Picking up bad habits from your brother?"

Sherlock gave her a raised eyebrow. "Mycroft is _lazy_ ; he has minions to watch screens. I don't need CCTV; logic and your arrival time are enough for me to deduce your journey."

"So, why didn't you assume we'd take the quickest route? After all, your text made it sound like a command performance." John was still amused.

For a moment, the grey green eyes just looked at them both, as if slightly confused. "My text didn't say anything about speed; Mary's the one who's the procrastinator, so I was attempting to limit the possible excuses. And I assumed she wouldn't want to walk the extra distance; after all, a nurse's duties keep her on her feet most of the hours that you're sitting down. Or did you not think of that?"

As soon as he finished talking, the half-dressed man gave an involuntary shiver. There were goose-bumps on his arms.

Mary waved him back toward his bedroom. "Shoo- get warm. Open pore syndrome…"

"That's a myth. Tell her, John. Human pores aren't like doors- they don't open and close. They just are. Shouldn't you know that, as a medical professional?"

She grinned. "Nurse, not a doctor. All those anatomy classes are why he's paid more."

John intervened. "Whatever- go get the rest of your clothes on, and then come back and tell us about this."

By the time Sherlock returned, fully dressed and wearing his burgundy wool dressing gown as well, the pair had taken the straight chairs from the table between the windows and were sat side-by-side facing the wall and its labels.

For a moment, Sherlock paused on the threshold, feeling awkward. After being alone in the flat for almost three months, suddenly the living room felt crowded, almost alien to him. John was _different_ when Mary was with him. He was acting as if he was a visitor, rather than someone who lived here. His body language, his whole demeanour was not what it had once been, even though the smile on John's face was encouraging. It made Sherlock's chest hurt, so he looked away and faced the wall, standing between the coffee table and the wall. He kept his back to the pair, acutely aware of their presence, but not willing to face it.

"Where do we start?" Mary's voice carried excitement and anticipation. Sherlock realised she was enjoying this, in almost exact mirror image of how much John was trying to feign enthusiasm, but not quite pulling it off.

For a moment, Sherlock started to turn to look at them again, to deduce what was behind the difference, to really let loose his observational skills on Mary. But the second that thought crossed his mind, a memory interjected-

" _Don't you dare!_ "

In the living room of his Memory Palace, John sat in his proper chair, telling him how he had sabotaged his love life by deducing every one of his dates. " _I won't have you do that to Mary, and that's final_." John's anger that had greeted him on his return was still raw and open then. The demand had been delivered through clenched teeth, an ultimatum on the morning after John had been pulled from the bonfire. Between then and now, Sherlock had consciously avoided delving too deeply into Mary. This was his gift to John.

"Sherlock?" John's questioning tone cut through the wall of his Memory Palace and brought him back. He stopped his move, keeping them just on the edge of his peripheral vision, then stiffened his shoulders, and started.

"There are four questions that need answers today, because everything else depends on them. Of those four, one must be answered at the start. What is your budget?"

Mary smiled at John, as if waiting for him to answer.

"Um…we've set aside £5,000 pounds of what we've saved."

"Does that include the dress?"

Mary nodded. "All in, including the honeymoon."

Sherlock wrote this on an index card and stuck blue tack on the back. Then he stepped up onto the sofa and pushed the card into place at the far right. "That automatically limits the number of guests. What number have you in mind?"

"No more than fifty." John sounded quite firm about this.

Sherlock wrote that on a card and pinned it. "That limits the location. A lot of wedding venues will only accept a minimum number of guests- and that's usually one hundred."

He stepped back down off the sofa and faced them. "The next question is where- how far out from London are you willing to go?"

It was Mary's turn to answer. "It needs to be within an hour's drive or train ride from the centre- and close enough to a station that it isn't impossible to reach. Most of our friends in central London don't have cars. And it can't be so far out that people would have to stay overnight if they have families or can't afford it."

Sherlock turned to the map while flipping the cap off of a black magic marker. He leaned over the sofa to draw an almost perfect circle around London, just beyond the perimeter of the M25 that circled London.

"Date is the other issue. Saturdays are the most expensive, mid-week the least."

Mary was equally firm. "Got to be a Saturday; no disrespect intended to a Consulting Detective, but most of our friends work a nine to five, weekday job, so taking a day off to attend a wedding will cut into their limited holidays- and if they have kids, they can't take them out of school. So, a Saturday- in May."

Sherlock wrote "11 May" on one card and "18 May" on the other, then pinned them up under the budget and guest numbers on the far left.

In a puzzled tone, John remarked, "Last time I looked at a calendar, there were four Saturdays in May."

Sherlock smiled. "You see, but do not observe that calendar, John. The first and last Saturdays of May are Bank Holiday Weekends. Travel is congested, and these are prime vacation times for people, most of whom are looking to leave the UK for warmer climates. It's even worse for the last weekend- that's half term, schools are out, and if you want the parents to attend your wedding rather than heading for Gatwick airport _en famile_ , then you need to avoid those dates."

Mary smirked. "You are a natural at this, Sherlock."

He sniffed. "There are supplementary questions. Perhaps it is easiest if I give you a choice between two things, and you tell me which you prefer."

John and Mary exchanged a puzzled look, but John shrugged and said "fire away."

"Church service or civil ceremony?"

"C of E or another denomination?"

"Sit down meal or buffet?"

"Traditional or modern?"

"Garden marquee or inside?"

"Hotel or historic building?"

"Afternoon reception only or an evening function, as well?"

He worked his way through what had been called _the style_ questions, getting a feel for Mary's taste. Each answer made it onto an index card and was posted. For the most part, John seemed happy to let Mary take the lead.

"Vintage car or pony and trap?"

"String quartet or disco?"

Both John and Mary answered "Disco" at exactly the same time, and started laughing.

Sherlock put up another card up, muttering "No accounting for some people's taste."

As the questions were asked, answered, written out and then posted on the wall, part of Sherlock's mind disengaged from the present. He'd never understood the institution of marriage, based on the admittedly limited experience of observing that of his mother and father. For some reason, a memory took over.

"Why wouldn't you let me tell Mummy?"

He was nine. Mycroft's terse, "I told her. No need for you to get involved. You'll only make it worse. You don't understand how grown-ups feel about marriage. Father's reaction should have been a warning to avoid the topic. Instead, you just kept on, until he lost his temper."*

Sherlock sulked. "It wasn't my fault. And I don't understand what difference it makes whether Father has a girl friend or not. I still don't know why he got so angry." Unconsciously, he reached up and rubbed the side of his face, where the bruised purple was only just starting to fade, a week after the blow that had made them.

Mycroft saw his gesture and frowned. "It wasn't right that he hit you, no matter what you said, or how you said it. He has a temper; you know that but you forgot to follow the five steps I taught you."

The previous summer, Mycroft had given him a simple set of avoidance strategies, to avoid getting into trouble with his father. Sherlock didn't always understand when they should be used, or even why. So much of other people's behaviour was perplexing. Even Mummy's. She'd been relieved to find him when she got to Eton, but in the car on the way back to Parham, she'd taken him by the shoulders firmly and told him never, ever to run away from home again.

"I wasn't running away. I was running _to_ Mycroft, because he'd be able to explain what I had done wrong, and find a way to stop Father from sending me away."

Mummy had cried then. He didn't understand why. And then the next morning, Mycroft had gone into Mummy's bedroom with her breakfast tray and they'd had a long talk. Sherlock had sat on the floor outside her door, trying to hear what they were saying. Whatever it was, it made Mummy cry even more. She'd stayed in her room for the rest of the day.

A lifetime later, he knew what he'd done. His revelation had shredded the last vestiges of their married relationship, bringing to light things that neither of them wanted to admit. Until then, they'd both been willing to turn a blind eye. Sherlock also knew, with the benefit of hindsight, that caring for him was what had taken his mother's eye off her relationship with her husband- something for which his father had never, ever forgiven him. But his father's infidelities – and his mother's willingness to accommodate them- made Sherlock cynical about why two people would continue to pretend that their relationship was worth preserving. Marriage remained something of a mystery to him- apart from being the motivation for quite a number of the crimes he had investigated. It was a rule of thumb for him to always suspect the boyfriend, the lover, but especially the husband. He wasn't gender-blind. If the victim was male, he'd look carefully at the wife or mistress, who was just as able to kill as their partner. Start there. _Love makes people make the wrong decisions._

And the second most common motivation for crime was now staring him in the face, as he scanned the wall, and looked again at the one index card at the far left that read "£5,000". _Money._

Sherlock capped his black magic marker and turned to face the couple for the first time. "You do realise that it is not possible to do all of this within the budget you've set?"

Mary giggled. "Probably not, but it's fun to think of what we would like if there were no constraints. Then when we have to cut our cloth to fit the budget, we can decide what to do without."

Sherlock sat down on the coffee table. "I'm not sure you understand. You clearly don't realise that the average cost of a wedding in the UK today is £20, 983 pounds. Ninety two guests is the average, and the average spend per guest is over two hundred pounds- that's just for the venue, food and drink. It doesn't include the wedding rings, the dress, the church fees, honeymoon and all that."

The look of shock on John's face told him what Sherlock had begun to suspect- he had no idea what the wedding would cost or involve. Mary's eyes were a bit wide, but then she smirked. "You're the genius. You'll figure it out."

Sherlock started to think about what his bank balance was, and what might be moved to increase the income from the Trust Fund. He'd have to talk to his brother.

John snapped. "No, Sherlock. Don't even think about using any of your money- or even Mycroft's. This is _our_ show. Either we pay for _everything_ , or it doesn't happen." Then realising what he'd said could be misunderstood, he hastened to add "…at least not in the way that it would if money were not an issue."

That caveat made it a challenge. Not insurmountable, but definitely more challenging. He would need to call a lot of favours in. Sherlock turned around to survey the wall.

"I need to think. You should go away now."

John cleared his throat, "Ah, no. I was thinking about ordering some take-away and then we could all have a bite to eat."

Sherlock wouldn't turn around. He waved his hand behind him, dismissively. "You know I don't eat on a case."

"But you aren't on a case now. You wouldn't have interrupted the real Work for this, so you can join us." John sounded determined.

He shook his head. "This _is_ a case, John. If you won't let me solve it with money, then it is going to take some real thinking."

John shook his head. "We'll just do what everyone else on a limited budget does. Go to our local church, and hire a room over a nearby pub. It won't cost the earth."

Sherlock had turned to see John deliver this pragmatic response. In his peripheral vision, he could see Mary make a face of disgust. He thought about her expectations not being met, and wondered what effect that would have on the married life of John Watson. His friend had made his choice, and Sherlock needed to do more than just honour that choice; it was incumbent on him to help the couple start their married life without disappointment. He had disappointed John enough; if he could do something now, then that would be what John would call _a bit_ _good_.

So, he turned back to the board with renewed determination. "John, you can put it on your blog as "the best possible wedding" case. Go away; I need to think. Why not go to Angelo's? Tell him I sent you -that way you won't be spending money that you should be saving for this."

Mary piped up, "What a good idea! We haven't eaten out properly in ages; come on, John." She got up and reached for the coats that had been hung on the peg alongside Sherlock's Belstaff.

Sherlock tuned them out, and started to mentally map which of the index cards could be matched with the names of people who owed him favours. There were advantages to not accepting payment for solving most cases- it created a sense of obligation. He barely registered the sound of their departure, but as soon as the front door clunked shut, he started writing on yellow sticky notes. Better they didn't know; John had peculiar ideas about pride. He would want to think that they had paid a proper amount. The balancing act would be hard to maintain- but not impossible. He'd honed his deception skills whilst undercover as Lars Sigursson; now he would have to channel those, whilst still being Sherlock Holmes. _An interesting case, this one._

oOo

 _12 hours later…_

"The murderer hit him in the throat, probably with an elbow, certainly hard enough to shatter the hyoid bone and the thyroid cartilage, driving fragments of both into the internal carotid artery. He would have been unconscious in seconds, bled out in minutes….if he didn't choke on the blood first. Belt and braces- the work of a professional."

Greg Lesdrade could see that blood- it was everywhere - on the throat and around the head of the body of a young man, whose clothes suggested office worker, middle manager. Even in the dawn's early light, there was enough contrast to see the dark coagulating blood pool in the empty carpark.

"The blow caught him by surprise. Only time to raise his arm in defence." Sherlock lifted the right arm of the victim, and Greg could see the broken bone- a compound fracture of the forearm, from the odd angle that it was showing through the waterproof jacket.

"Given body's still just warm, this is recent- within the last ninety minutes." Sherlock was now examining the man's hands.

"The owner of the Curtains and Blinds unit across Argall Way had called in the crime at 6.32." It was now just after seven. Sally Donovan was bundled up, with a hat, scarf and gloves, trying to keep warm by stamping her booted feet. "No ID, no effects in his pockets. Could this be a body dump?"

Sherlock snorted. "Your skills are deteriorating, Sergeant- not with that amount of blood. He was killed here, after meeting someone."

Greg looked around. The light industry park on the edges of Hackney Wick was park of the ongoing development of the Lea Valley- a legacy of the 2012 Olympics. Sally said, "This isn't a derelict area. Someone should have seen the murder, or the body if it had been lying here for even a short time."

Sherlock shook his head. "You are not thinking straight. Go stand at the roundabout and look at the entrance to this car park- where a car would pass."

Annoyed, the Detective Sergeant did what she was told, and when she turned to look back, Sherlock called out, "Squat down to a driver's position."

Watching Sally follow the instruction- and disappear from view, Greg realised what Sherlock meant. The verge surrounding the car park on the corner of the roundabout was overgrown- a few shrubby evergreens, interspersed with ivy were just high enough to obscure the body. So, if no one was actually parked in the car park, it was likely to have escaped notice from the road.

 _How does he do that?_ It still amazed Greg at how quickly Sherlock would see all of the angles at a crime scene. It took trained Forensic Examiners ages, using computer generated imagery and sometimes even laser lights to clarify angles of sight. The two who were working the scene had scarcely had time to get the crime scene tapes in place and start taking fingerprints and DNA swabs of the blood. As ever, Sherlock seemed to be working on a faster time clock than any of the professional services. This morning, the Consulting Detective seemed wound up tight, almost ticking with urgency.

He glanced back to where Sherlock was continuing his explanation. "The killer chose this spot well. Unlikely to have anyone parked here overnight from a Sunday, and limited traffic coming in this morning at this hour. This is an overspill carpark- most of the workers in early will find spaces at their units. So, the killer would have expected to have until 7.30 or 8 to get away." He looked up and pointed right and then left. "No CCTV either. Why bother, most of the units have their own. Also, because the roads in the industrial estate are private, no traffic cameras either. A perfect choice- again, made by a professional."

If Sherlock's terse assessment made him sound like a professional who looked for places and opportunities to get away with murder, Greg decided not to comment on it. He had no idea what Sherlock had actually gotten up to on his two years away- not the details, anyway. The DI's imagination had given him enough to think about when he'd seen the scars of Sherlock's back. He knew that Sherlock before his fall could give as good as he got, and the man who returned had not hesitated to get into a boxing ring with people who fought by the bare minimum of rules.** Right now, the tight shoulders and taut temper of the Consulting Detective reminded him a bit of those times. _He's grumpy and looking for a fight._

Sherlock stood up and flipped up the collar of his Belstaff against the stiff breeze. He walked over to a pothole in the carpark, bending down to get his eyes close to the crumbling edge of the tarmac. He slid open the pocket magnifier and looked carefully. Greg went over to see what had caught his eye.

When the Consulting Detective stood up again, he said just one word. "Motorcycles."

"Motorcycles?"

Sherlock gave him an odd look. "Yes- motorcycles- that is, _two_ bikes, with distinctive tread patterns. A rendezvous that didn't work out for one of the bikers. It was planned in advance because the killer came with someone riding pillion."

Sally had returned to the two men and was looking rather askance at Sherlock. "I get how you could figure out tyre treads in the pothole edge. But how do you know they were put there by the killers?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Anyone turning in this car park is going to hit that pothole. By the end of rush hour, the car park will be full and the tyre treads will have been obliterated. So, last ones in the carpark were motorbikes. Both the victim and the killers came in by bike."

Greg looked around. "So where's the guy's bike, and his helmet?"

"Obviously taken by the killers." He was not hiding his impatience.

Sally wasn't mollified. "How do you know how one of the bikes had two passengers?"

"Weight differentials- one bike much heavier than the other- just _look_ at the tyre imprints." This was delivered in rapid fire, almost staccato cadence.

"So, maybe the killer was fat?"

Sherlock closed his eyes as if in disbelief. "For God's sake, Sergeant. This isn't rocket science." He burned her with a look. "If I was going to kill someone who came on a motorbike, I'd bring along someone who could drive it away after the murder. Wouldn't you?"

"I'm not in the habit of killing people. How do you know? I mean you can't actually _know_." Sally's hands were actually on her hips; this early in the morning, she wasn't willing to let Sherlock get away with just bulldozing her opposition.

"I don't need evidence; logic is enough to tell me what happened here." He stalked away back over to the body.

Greg called after him. "Yeah, maybe, but _why_? I mean, who is this guy and why would someone- no, two someones- kill him?"

In answer, Sherlock leaned down and pulled a set of keys from the dead man's jeans pocket. "Observe." He held up what was the top of a USB stick attached to the key ring. But the actual thumb drive was missing. "Whatever was on this was the likely motive for the crime."

"Any idea what would be worth killing this guy for?"

Sherlock looked back at the body. "I've more idea about the killer. They don't teach that kind of lethal blow in the police or the normal services. Only Special Ops- and they'd not have had much experience in putting it into practice. So, whatever it was, you won't find prints- the assailants will have used gloves." He turned away. "I need to make a phone call in private." He started to walk away, reaching into his pocket for his phone.

Two rings were enough.

"To what do I owe the honour, brother mine? You're rather busy playing happy families with the about-to-be Watsons these days."

Sherlock glowered. "You're _still_ bugging my flat? I thought you would have grown out of that phase by now. Anyway, this is what is known as a 'heads up'. Someone who is likely to have been intelligence has just turned up dead in the East End- minus a USB stick. Could be a foreign service, but doesn't look like it from the clothing and haircut. I've just sent you a photo. Do tell."

"Lord, just what I don't need on the one Monday in months that I've escaped to Parham." There was a heavy sigh from his brother. "Hold the line and I'll open the photo."

There was a pause, while Sherlock occupied his mind thinking about the motorbikes and tyre treads. One of those was rather unusual- and he had to go off to the garage attached to his Mind Palace to look through some of the tyre samples he had stored there. He lost track of time.

His brother came back on the phone. "One of mine, alas." The languid tones of his brother had disappeared, and more clipped consonants had taken over. "My people will be there in a few minutes. You get to tell the Detective Inspector that he's off the case. And so are you." His tone was deadly serious, and in his most authoritarian voice.

"I can work faster than your people. Who was he?"

"Keep your nose out of my business, Sherlock. Under no circumstances are you to get involved. This is off limits. Anyway, don't you have a wedding to plan?"

Sherlock took some small pleasure in hanging up on his brother. He walked back to tell Lestrade the bad news. Sally's face said it all- disappointment and disgust in equal measure. "Another example of why liaison between the Metropolitan Police and the security services is at an all-time low." She went off to tell the CS examiners to pack up their kit.

"Lestrade, can I borrow your Norton? It's seven minutes to your flat, if you're willing to drive me there. And you can get back to that breakfast you've been missing."

Greg snorted. "Well, at least this time you're asking permission." But, then he thought about what Sherlock in his current mood would get up to on his own. And what he had learned when he'd gone to see Diane Goodliffe- that without John, Sherlock needed Greg to be a useful drag anchor on his risk taking.*** The volatility of Sherlock's mood clinched it.

"I'm coming with you."

Sherlock reacted with a frown. "How do you know where I am going? I might be using it for some domestic chore."

The DI just laughed. "As if that were ever going to happen. Before your brother's mob shows up here to process this crime scene, you want me to check the CCTV? See if we can spot anything?"

Sherlock looked back down at the body. "Mycroft's people will be too methodical; they don't think like the professional who did this. _He_ will know enough to get some distance away on the back roads, before crossing one that might have a camera on it." His eyes focussed on the middle distance- "he will have sussed out where to do it to miss avoidable cameras. Tell them to check the roundabouts at Crooked Billet, Waterworks Corner and the Whipps Cross –Lea Bridge intersections- sooner or later he has to show up on one of those. And unlike Mycroft's lot, I know what I am looking for- a Honda CBR 250."

Greg nodded and told Sally to mind the fort until it could be handed over to the Security & Intelligence Liaison team. While he drove back to Seven Sisters, he was on his hands-free telling the TfL folk what to look for. Sherlock was in the passenger seat, his eyes glued to his own phone, researching something.

Twelve minutes later, he and Sherlock were arguing about who was going to ride pillion, and who was going to drive.

"I know what I'm looking for." Sherlock's tone made it clear that he'd spent the past two years in control, and was only reluctantly accepting the necessity of bringing Greg along for the ride.

"My bike; I drive." Greg was equally adamant.

The two of them were clad in leathers- Greg had forced Sherlock into storing his gear and helmet in the lock-up garage at the back of his flat. After what had happened in December**, he wasn't about to watch his beloved Norton be taken out again without knowing it was being used by Sherlock.

The DI had just taken a call from Transport for London - a motorbike bearing the license number WG58 KGJ had been picked up by the cameras at the Crooked Billet roundabout between the A406 North Circular and the M11. They would text his phone every two or three minutes with the target's position.

Greg still had a nagging doubt. "You said there were two bikes- the one driven by the victim and then taken out of there by the passenger on the other bike. How do you know this is the right one that we need to be chasing?"

"Are you _really_ that thick?"

"Sherlock… It's early and I haven't had coffee, so just cut the crap and answer the question."

"Well, _obviously_ , the killer came on the _Honda_ \- it's the one with the deeper tyre tread, showing two passengers. His accomplice has to take the victim's bike and dump it as quickly as possible- likely to be somewhere in the Hackney marshes or the lakes that are all over this neighbourhood. The killer is on the Honda and taking that USB to whomever ordered the attack."

Sherlock shoved his helmet on. "While we stand here arguing, he's getting away." He was cross at the delay, his tension at the crime scene now boiling over in scarcely concealed annoyance.

"Then shut up and get on." Greg grabbed the handlebars and sat on the front. After a moment of hesitation Sherlock climbed on behind him. As the Norton charged up the West Green Road, heading for the Walthamstow Bridge, the target was heading north on a road the led to Stansted Airport. But at least the transport police were now tracking it, using the Motorway speed cameras on the M11. Greg had warned the police that his own bike would be exceeding the speed limit, and to just let them get on with it. At the first stoplight, he handed his phone back to Sherlock and said over the bike's rumble, "Keep an eye on the texts and tell me where to go."

As they roared under the M25 junction at Hobbs Cross, Greg started keeping one eye on the fuel gauge. He never kept a lot of petrol in the tank while it was in the lock-up; just a fire risk.

It was with some relief that Sherlock tapped his helmet a few minutes later and shouted "Next exit." It was the A414 to Harlow, or Chelmsford if you were heading east. There was no sign of their target when they got to the top of the intersection- and no cameras out here in the rural countryside. Greg throttled back and asked Sherlock, "Which way?"

There was a pause, and Sherlock dragged out his own phone, called up Google Maps, and then said without hesitating, "Follow the signs to Hastingwood, then left to Threshers' End, then follow the road through the three Matching villages. We're headed towards Newmans End and the Arnsworth Castle hotel."

Greg turned to look at him, flipping up his visor. "Why? Why there?"

"He has to hand over a USB, which means he needs a public place that gets passing trade. No pub is open at this hour- or if it is, people will notice anyone showing up. No big stores in this area. We need a hotel, one that gets a lot of international guests. We're less than ten miles from Stansted airport- but the airport hotels have heightened security. So Arnsworth Castle Hotel it is. Stop talking and get going."

It took them another fifteen minutes of small country lanes before they finally spotted the sign to the hotel. A long looping driveway through neatly manicured park land with the obligatory rare breed sheep grazing told Greg that this was one of those "country house" hotels. He wondered where the castle was.

As they drove into the visitor's carpark, a quick scan revealed no motorbike. In fact, there were only six cars in the park, most of which were big, expensive luxury cars. One – a Ferrari- caught his eye. But, before he could say anything, Sherlock leaned forward.

"Head for the staff carpark." Greg spun the back wheel of the Norton in the thick gravel for a moment before the bike's off-road tyres got purchase. The pair carried on past the hotel, around the back to what must have once been a stable area, a long time ago. Now the cars parked there looked more like it- modest, a few bangers, and there, parked up against a lean-to carport was the target bike.

Greg started to switch off, but Sherlock tapped his shoulder. "We need to go in the front entrance; now we know he's staff, we need to pull rank." So Greg re-traced their route, parked up and then started to strip off the leathers. Sherlock did the same, and by the time the two of them went in the front door, one would have assumed that they were business men, whose suits were a bit rumpled- perhaps from a recent flight into Stansted.

Greg let Sherlock take charge, curious as to how the Consulting Detective would play it. Given his current mood, he didn't want to get in the man's way. The younger man strode up to the reception desk and said with firm authority, "We need to see the manager of the hotel, immediately."

The young blonde woman looked slightly taken aback by the abruptness of the demand. "How can I help you, sir?"

"By getting the manager. Or did you not understand me? You may be from Latvia, but I assume that a four star hotel would not employ someone in this role who didn't have a reasonable command of the local language."

Greg grimaced; Sherlock was being his usual charming self. "And while we wait…" the younger man said imperiously, "…you can organise some coffee for us."

Yet, the rudeness seemed to work. The blonde went beetroot red in the face, but scurried back to pick up a house phone. Sherlock took Greg over to the soft leather chesterfield in the lobby area. "Just sit down and look like we deserve to be here, Lestrade. More will be accomplished that way."

The DI rolled his eyes. _He's in a foul mood for some reason._

But, he did appreciate it when only a few minutes later, a waiter appeared carrying a tray of china cups with a coffee press. Sherlock gave the middle-aged man a close look, but then shook his head when Greg raised an eyebrow. This wasn't their target. The waiter poured two cups, and Greg realised how much he appreciated it as he drew in the first taste. The morning had been too busy, and he welcomed the caffeine- not to mention the warmth. Tearing up the motorway in late February was not an activity designed to keep you warm. He picked up the newspaper from the coffee table, and saw Sherlock snaffle one of the hotel brochures whilst taking out his phone again.

Greg was on his second cup and starting to thaw out by the time the manager appeared. A short, balding man in a suit who introduced himself: "I'm Simon Edwards, the manager here. How can I help you two gentlemen? I understand that neither of you is a guest in the hotel."

Sherlock gave him an intense stare. "We need to see your staff list. And then your guest list. Immediately."

The manager looked askance. "Why would you want to do that? Who are you?"

Sherlock glanced over at Lestrade, who drew out his warrant card. "Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, Metropolitan Police. I'm investigating a murder, and we have tracked the suspect to this hotel. This is Mister Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps you are aware that he occasionally helps the police with our enquiries."

The alarm in the manager's eyes was palpable. There were times like these when Sherlock's recent newspaper fame helped, if it got them co-operation. "A murder?! Nothing's been reported to me."

"Why would it be?" Sherlock sat up and put his own empty coffee cup down on the table. "The murder occurred in East London. Did you not hear what was said? The _suspect_ was tracked here. We believe a member of your staff killed someone a few hours ago, stealing something in the process, and he's come here- perhaps to hand it over to someone, most likely a guest. So, we need to see the list of both staff and guests. _Now_."

Nonplussed by the revelations and the abrupt demand, the manager stuttered. "Our guests…. I can't just hand over their details. They…er…expect a high degree of privacy. I'm sorry Detective Inspector, but you are out of your jurisdiction. I'd need to have a warrant from the Hertfordshire constabulary to be able to do what you ask, legally."

Sherlock glowered, and then unleashed his ire. "So says a man who has obviously been through criminal proceedings before. I expect the hotel is regularly used for adulterous liaisons, and you've probably been caught hosting other less salubrious activities, as well. I can assure you that the reputation of the hotel will be damaged further if it gets out that you've given cover to a member of staff who is a thief and a murderer, and that the hotel is serving as a meeting place for international organised crime networks."

This was delivered in Sherlock's rapid fire technique, usually reserved for deductions. It had the desired effect on the manager, who seemed to be struggling to catch up, whilst almost visibly panicking when he managed to hear the key words of "reputation" and "organised crime". The bald head started to shine; he was sweating.

Sherlock wasn't finished. "If you really want us to apply to a local judge for a warrant, then I'll be sure to find one that uses your hotel. We'll see how long it takes for the news to get out onto TripAdvisor. It couldn't be any worse than that incident of food poisoning to the Christmas party last year for the Tesco top product sales teams."

The manager actually went pale. Greg tried to hide his smile. Sherlock always seemed to know which buttons to push.

"Um…I'll see what I can do. Just wait here." The manager started to leave.

"Wait." Recognising capitulation, Sherlock pressed his advantage. "Actually, given how few guest rooms are currently occupied, I need to see the reservations for tonight, as well. And don't bother with the full staff list- just today's duty roster will be enough." He flashed his "client smile"- which after many years, Lestrade knew to be mustered only when Sherlock thought it would be to his advantage.

When the manager scuttled off to get the information, Greg let out the smile he'd been trying to stifle. "You are wicked, you know. Poor guy's going to have a heart attack."

Sherlock folded the hotel brochure he'd been reading and put it into his Belstaff pocket. "Hotel managers are risk averse. And a useful source of information, if you know how to prey on their weaknesses."

"Why didn't you just ask which member of staff drives the motorbike?" Sherlock usually took the shortest distance between two deductions, and went straight for the guilty party, so the less direct route seemed at odds with the man's earlier impatience.

Sherlock tilted his head. "And let the manager tell the man he's fired, to bugger off, and then remove all trace of his employment here? Really, Lestrade, are you always so trusting of people? It is in his and the hotel's best interests to deny that there is any connection with a murder."

He sniffed and got to his feet. "In any case, the suspect is merely the means to the end. I'm more interested in finding out if the USB has been handed over yet, or whether the recipient hasn't checked in. If we make too much of a scene here, we might tip off whoever it is he intends to meet."

Greg took a final swig of the coffee and put the newspaper back on the table.

"No, you stay here. I'm going to take a quick look around." The tall brunet strode off in the direction of the restaurant, if the discrete brass sign on the wall was anything to go by.

While he waited, Greg had a hard think about the case. If Mycroft was taking over the crime scene, then it was something to do with security. And Sherlock's behaviour suggested that he wanted in on the case- preferably before Mycroft arrived to stop him. He'd been rather conspicuous in his desire to keep one step ahead of his brother. That was more than a tad worrying- he didn't want to piss off the elder Holmes. Greg started to rehearse his justifications, just in case he needed to explain his actions. He'd once promised to keep an eye on Sherlock, to make sure the Consulting Detective's investigations for the police didn't end up with him in a hospital bed. Given the professionalism with which the victim had been murdered, Greg started wondering whether he should call in some back-up. And Sherlock's absence now made him even more anxious. Might he be confronting the killer even now? Lestrade stood up, and started to head for the restaurant.

But before he could get there, the manager re-appeared, waving some papers. The small man was now sweating profusely. "Here are the lists. Where's Mister Holmes?"

Greg took the lists out of the man's hands and kept going. "He's exploring. I suggest we find him."

The restaurant was almost empty. One couple were sitting at a table by the window, and looked up with curiosity when they entered. The manager flashed them a reassuring smile, and then exited, with Greg behind him.

"Most of the departing guests have finished their breakfast; the latest shuttle to Stansted left at 8.45. I've noted those already checked out on the first sheet."

Greg scanned the list - only six names on it were highlighted in yellow.

"Any of these check out in the past hour?"

Edwards explained, "The ones highlighted on the first list are the guests who are still in the hotel. The others checked out and have left already. The second list has the thirteen guests already here, who are staying on for another day or more, and the third list has the people coming in this afternoon. And the last sheet is the duty roster."

The DI looked at the names and wondered what he should be seeing. He didn't need Sherlock to be present to hear a well-worn phrase, "You see, but do not observe, Lestrade." _Where are you, Sherlock?_ Just when he needed to know what to look for, the man had gone walkabout.

"Where else might Mister Holmes be? Are there other public rooms?"

The manager nodded; "Follow me." He poked his head into a wood panelled room with a fireplace, but over his shoulder Greg could see there was just one guest in there reading a newspaper; he looked up, expectantly. "Has my taxi arrived early?" It was a foreign accent, but not one Lestrade could place.

The Manager shook his head. "It was booked for ten o'clock, sir." He consulted his watch, and then said, "At least another twenty minutes to enjoy your paper. We'll come find you when it arrives. I was just looking for another guest."

Edwards came back to Lestrade and pointed down the corridor. "Let's try the Orangery."

Greg followed the small man to the east side of the hotel, and through a pair of French doors into a long rectangular room filled with light. Windows along one wall looked out over the garden, which even on a cold February morning still looked attractive. But all that was taken in quickly, because the DI's attention was drawn to the sight of Sherlock at the far end of the empty room, standing on a bare stage, using his phone to take photos.

His baritone carried across the empty room to the manager. "You use this as a function room… what's the capacity, when seated at round tables of eight?"

Edwards looked startled at the question, but answered anyway. "Depends on the top table arrangement, but between sixty and eighty."

Sherlock continued to take photos, one of which was a close-up if the yellow patterned wallpaper.

Greg frowned, "Sherlock, what does the room capacity have to do with the murder?"

"Nothing."

Greg glanced at the look of bewilderment from the Manager, before continuing, "Here are the lists you wanted."

Sherlock put his phone away and strode over to the men; he plucked the sheets of paper from Greg's hands and read through them very quickly.

"Ah."

Greg waited. It was not the "oh!" he wanted to hear, but over the years he'd learned how to translate some of the less obvious utterances of the Consulting Detective. Whatever Sherlock had seen on the list, it had surprised him, and that required some thinking before he could deduce a solution to the case.

Sherlock was shaking his head. "I've got it back to front…Mister Edwards, you have not listed your agency staff here."

The bald man shook his head, "No, because they don't tend to work here for any length of time, so why bother? We just pay the agency."

"So, anyone could turn up claiming to be from the agency, and you'd not know any difference, because you aren't even given a name. And the agency staff would not necessarily know each other." This was a statement, which got him a nod of agreement from the hotel manager.

Sherlock raised his hands, pressing his fingers together in a familiar steeple. His eyes focused off in the middle distance.

Edwards shifted a little, and then explained, "It's not unusual practice; everyone does it to cope with the uneven pattern of demand for staff. No point in having people on the payroll, if the work isn't here."

There was no answer from Sherlock, who was still staring off into the distance. Greg tried to fill in the gap, "what agency staff have you got on at the moment?"

"We just finished a Tea Dancing weekend. So we laid on an extra bedroom floor maid, two catering, two waiters and one extra chap to shift luggage and do the set ups and break downs in the function rooms because we've a lot of shifting to do- stages, lighting and the like." Edwards was staring at Sherlock, puzzled by the man's disengagement.

Greg gave the manager a reassuring smile. "It's okay; he's just thinking."

Sherlock suddenly came to life, and focused his complete attention on the manager with almost frightening intensity. "Tell me about one of the guests checking out today- Iuri Malkhaz Chkhetidze. Is he a regular?"

"Um… yes, he is; A businessman, something in import-export business."

"You confirmed his identity against a passport? A Georgian passport?"

"Well, it was ages ago, but I presume so- the reception staff are trained so the first time someone checks in we have to confirm against a photo ID. We're close enough to the airport that it just makes sense. With so many international travellers, we use a passport to confirm ID and then check that the credit card is valid."

"How many times has he been here?"

Edwards shrugged. "Maybe a half dozen times or so this year. Once every other month; he's been coming for years."

A predatory smile was forming on Sherlock's face. Greg realised that he'd just made an important connection, but had no idea what it was.

Unaware of Sherlock's change in demeanour, Edwards continued, "Do you need to speak with him? His flight is at midday. He was in the library just a moment ago reading a newspaper. We've booked him a taxi for ten, so he's parked himself in there until it arrives. It's his usual routine."

Sherlock suddenly bolted through the French doors, running flat out back towards the Library. Greg took after him, with the portly manager bringing up the rear. Once the DI skidded around the corner, he could see down the corridor. Before Sherlock got to it, the heavy wooden door to the Library opened and a white-coated burly waiter started to come out from the room. He took one look at the men charging down the corridor and bolted back into the room.

Sherlock tore after him into the Library and Greg heard a great clatter of breaking china and the sound of something metal hitting the floor. When Greg got into the room, it was to witness an extraordinary scene. The waiter and Sherlock were fighting- and it wasn't by Queensbury rules. The waiter must have had at least a two stone weight advantage over the taller but more wiry Sherlock. In the brawl the Georgian guest's stuffed leather chair had been tipped over, and he was trying to crawl towards the door. Greg moved in to arrest the man, thinking that he must be the recipient of the stolen USB drive.

" _Call an ambulance_!"

Sherlock's shout meant he took his eye off his opponent just long enough to see them come into the room, and he was rewarded for his lapse of concentration with an elbow smashed into his right side with enough force to make the Consulting Detective cry out. He crumpled and went down on one knee. The waiter then raised a leg to aim a killer kick at Sherlock's head.

But he never got the chance to deliver it because as soon as his assailant lifted his right leg off the floor to kick, Sherlock grabbed the Persian carpet on which the man was standing and gave it a terrific yank. Off-balance, the waiter wobbled, and Sherlock rose to his feet and lashed out with his own kick, connecting with the front of the knee that was taking the man's entire weight. With a sickening crunch, the man's patella shattered under the force of the blow, and he crashed to the floor.

The manager had taken Sherlock's order to heart, and run off to call an ambulance. In the meantime, Greg bent over the suspect guest who was struggling to get to his feet, trying to speak. His face had gone bright pink, his eyes bulging and his breathing ragged. The DI realised that the Georgian was in some way injured, but he could see no visible signs of it- no blood, or bullet wound.

Sherlock had thrown himself onto the fallen waiter, and the pair of them now wrestled for a choke hold. The bigger man moved just as fast as Sherlock, and was using his elbows and hands to good effect, keeping Sherlock from getting an advantage.

The Georgian was gasping now and looked like he was having real trouble breathing. "Damekhmareba…. gt'khovt." Then he seemed to rally for a moment, enough to blurt out "I'm on your side."

Lestrade was trying to make sense of this as he took a hold of the man's shoulders and eased him back down onto the floor, as his legs started to give way.

The DI called out, "Sherlock, need some help?"

Sherlock's hand caught the waiter's wrist and he drove his left elbow deep into the bicep, hoping to stun the muscle long enough to gain a lock-hold. He called out "No. Keep him alive…cyanide. He's going to stop… breathing." Another painful grunt erupted from the Consulting Detective as the waiter struggled, got a blow of his own in and nearly broke the choke hold. Sherlock grappled again, this time flipping the bigger man over, so the Consulting Detective was underneath, his arm across the man's throat, cutting off both air to the lungs and blood to the brain. "Don't…" Panting now from the exertion, Sherlock was finding it hard to find the air he needed to explain. "Coffee poisoned. No mouth-to-mouth… but he…needs oxygen."

The manager was back in the room, with a panicked look in his eyes. "The ambulance is on its way from Bishop Stortford. Ten Minutes- then another ten to the hospital in Harlow."

The waiter was still thrashing, trying to break Sherlock's hold. He was lifting up his shoulders and crashing back down on Sherlock, who grunted with pain each time he was thrown back onto the floorboards. But he didn't let go, even after his opponent started to go limp. The manager watched as if he couldn't believe what was happening in his hotel.

Lestrade was now bent over the guest, checking his pulse. The man was muttering in some foreign language- Georgian, he presumed- but at least he was still conscious and alert. Then in English the man shouted out- "Cooked clams."

" _What?!"_ Lestrade didn't understand; had he heard him right?

" _Yes!_ Or liver- quick." Sherlock said this through gritted teeth, then finally let the limp body of the waiter go and started wriggling out from underneath him. He looked straight at the manager, who was wringing his hands anxiously, not knowing where to look- the room was a total shambles from the fight.

Sherlock sat up slowly; he was panting from the fight but repeated, "Cooked clams, or beef liver; you must have one of them here in the kitchen." He drew in a deep breath. "Vitamin B12 counter-acts cyanide. Both have over a thousand times the recommended daily allowance. Get him to eat a hundred grams before he passes out. It will slow absorption."

Edwards looked unconvinced.

"It _works_ \- if you can be bothered to get it to him _quickly_ ," Sherlock rather unsteadily got to his knees, as the Manager scurried out of the room again. The Consulting Detective then patted down the unconscious waiter, and checked the man's pockets.

Lestrade saw the momentary flinch as Sherlock straightened up. "You okay?"

"Fine. Better than he is, for sure." Sherlock glanced back at the waiter, then down at the Georgian who was watching him. "I need to find the USB."

Chkhetidze could hardly talk, but he reached in his jacket pocket and fumbled a thumb drive out. "Get this to Mycroft Holmes," he wheezed.

Sherlock smirked. "My brother won't be long." He plucked the drive from the man's hand. "I think I hear a helicopter."

Greg listened, and sure enough, he too could hear it. He went over to the window and peered out. "Yep. You're right."

Sherlock looked more annoyed than pleased by that fact. "I need to find something else- mind the fort, Lestrade." He then exited the room. Less than a minute later, the manager reappeared caring a plate of what looked like raw liver. The Georgian grabbed at it and began to stuff it in his mouth. He had turned a rather alarming colour of pink. Greg held the plate and stifled his own instinct to gag at the idea of eating the raw offal. Then the man slumped, and closed his eyes.

The next thing he knew the room was swarming with black uniformed officers- their body armour said police, but one glance told him that these were not the Met's special protection or counter-terrorism men. One pointed to the waiter, "Hostile?"

Greg nodded, and they used plastic security cuffs to restrain the unconscious waiter. He figured this might be a rare outing of one of Mycroft's operational teams. A medic came in behind them, carrying a stretcher and a kit, and immediately started examining the Georgian.

His suspicions were confirmed when one of the agents called out "Clear." A moment later, Mycroft came into the room and swept it with an imperious glance before resting on the unconscious Georgian.

"Will he live?" The question was directed to the medic, who was putting in an IV.

"Cyanide. If we move fast and take the copter, he might make it."

Mycroft nodded, and two of the agents picked up the litter and they departed. Then he turned to Lestrade with a steely look. "Where is he?"

Greg shrugged, and pointed to the downed waiter. "There's your murderer. Sherlock's gone off in search of something; don't know what." He watched as two of the agents remaining in the room picked up the unconscious man and carried him out. It annoyed him that the back of their body armour read "police".

"Truth in advertising? Your men are not police, Mycroft."

That got him a raised eyebrow. "It works to identify them as 'friendlies'; less likely to be an issue when the local forces can be bothered to get involved."

"Are you going to tell me what's going on here?"

"No. Your security clearance isn't high enough."

"Is Sherlock's?"

Mycroft gave him a steely look. "That depends. In this case, no. So if you have the stolen USB stick, I would appreciate its return. Now." He held out his hand.

Greg shook his head, and was about to explain, but then Sherlock walked back into the room.

"Late again, Mycroft. Your man from Georgia would be dead if he'd relied on you."

The elder Holmes gave a long-suffering sigh. "Sherlock, just hand over the data. This does not concern you."

"Doesn't it? One of your agents is playing courier, delivering something to one of your contacts. But somehow he takes a little detour and ends up killed. The murderer then shows up here- to assassinate a particular guest, now that he knows _who_ he is supposed to kill." Sherlock pulled out not one but two USBs. "This is the one that your Georgian was supposed to exchange for the one with your courier. But why did the assassin want to kill him for it?"

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "I meant what I said, Sherlock. This is _none_ of your business." He took two strides closer to his brother and then closed his hand over the USBs in Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock did not release them.

There followed one of their staring matches, that Greg had come to realise was the default mode when both or either of them was too angry to trust using words.

It was Mycroft who broke the impasse, his face like stone. " _Brother mine,_ give me the data."

In all the years he'd known the man, Greg had never heard quite so much menace in his words.

Sherlock took a step closer. "Or what?"

"You will lose every shred of protection that Elizabeth has ever afforded you in the past. You will be barred from any work of this nature with any branch of the United Kingdom government –or any other foreign government for that matter."

Sherlock actually smirked, totally undaunted by the threat.

But Mycroft wasn't finished. "And I will see to it, personally, that you never, ever work with the Metropolitan Police again. If that is not enough incentive, then consider this. The Detective Inspector here will also be sent to purgatory, his career over, for directly disobeying the orders of the security services to cease and desist involvement in this business."

Greg's eyes widened, as the silence grew.

Then, Sherlock released the data sticks and stepped away, his face now as inscrutable as his brother's.

Mycroft did not even look at Sherlock or Greg as he strode out of the Library.

Once he got over the momentary shock of it all, Greg managed to find his voice again. "Sherlock, just what the bloody hell just happened?"

"Good question, Lestrade, but I don't have an answer…yet. Mind giving me a lift back into London?" The man's tight, tense manner from the crime scene was gone, replaced now by an almost breezy nonchalance.

All the way back down the M11, Lestrade tried to understand it- and failed.


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four T minus 72**

* * *

"Lift your arms, please."

Mary obeyed.

"Breath in."

She obliged, and stood up straighter for good measure.

"And now out- all the way; we don't want you fainting for lack of oxygen."

She smirked, but did as instructed.

Jane Bouvris smiled, and let the cloth tape measure out a good inch, then noted the figures on her pad.

Mary found herself breathing a sigh of relief. _At last!_ She had spent hours searching online, and more than a couple of afternoons while John and Sherlock went off on a case, but this was the first time that she had not despaired of ever finding a wedding dress that she could not only afford, but actually consider wearing.

The wedding dress styles in all the magazines played up to women's fantasies, but in practice suited no one other than a six foot tall couture model- a sort of stick insect with just the right curves in all the right places. The dresses on offer to this mythical creature seemed endless variations on just two themes: the first was the meringue cream puff with a huge billowing skirt, strapless with a tight balcony shelf or plunging necklines, where everyone's eyes would be drawn to her breasts or bare shoulders- neither of which in her case were, in her humble opinion, worth a second look. And she hated the harsh, hard fabrics- so white that they bleached out her fair skin and made her hair look dull. The stiff net petticoats and hard bone work in the one dress she'd tried on in the Selfridges bridal department had more in common with a suit of armour than something she would actually enjoy wearing.

But, the alternative was even worse. The second "style of the moment," as all those stupid magazines gushed, was the Hollywood starlet in a satin sheath that sometimes included a fishtail train. She loathed the slinky fabrics that would show every lumpy bump of her well-padded self, unless she was so corseted up that she wouldn't be able to breathe. Either style was doomed to fail on someone like her, and she was beginning seriously to worry that whatever dress she could afford would end up being both monstrously uncomfortable and hugely embarrassing.

And then, to her utter surprise, a six foot tall person with the kind of figure that belonged in a magazine photoshoot came to her rescue.

"What progress are you making on the dress? It's on the critical path. You need to make a decision soon, because the cost will affect the budget for everything else. If you spend the average amount - that's £1,590 in the UK last year- that will leave you with only a thousand pounds to cover John's suit hire, the rings, the service fees, photography and the honeymoon- which is clearly impossible. You're going to have to find something cheaper."

He was standing in front of the Baker Street wall, which now hosted a calendar with numbered days being marked through with a big red X. A marker pen was being manipulated through his fingers in an intricate bit of hand juggling.

Mary had come on her own today, because John was having a lie in this Saturday. He'd spent most of Friday evening staking out a suspect with Sherlock, and come home tired but elated- and way too keyed up to sleep. "The Case of the Poison Giant" was what he was going to call it, and said he would use the day off to sleep in late, and then type it up for the blog.

Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed totally un-fazed by the night's exertions, and was full of energy and focused determination. He kept playing with the magic marker pen, as he went through each step of the detailed project plan. Most of the morning's questions had been the next steps about the reception.

The venue had been agreed- the Arnsworth Castle was perfect. She and John had gone up last week, and agreed the deal with the Manager, who was only too happy to give them the Orangery for free, and the Bridal suite; they only had to pay for catering at cost- which came to fifty pounds a head, including wine. John had been suspicious, but Simon Edwards assured them that the hotel was delighted to be able to make the gesture "in light of Mister Holmes' work in saving us last week from a horrible incident that I cannot go into for reasons of national security."

That saving left them with half of their budget for the rest of the wedding- church fees, rings, clothing and the honeymoon. And the largest expense in that was most likely to be the dress.

Her silence in response to his latest question made him turn away from the board and look at her briefly- almost as if he was unsure whether his question might not have been well received. He was still a little hesitant when they were on their own together, and she knew that he was making an effort to moderate what John called his "all too brutal honesty."

"It's hard, Sherlock. I've had a look- but nothing is right." Then she amended that, "actually, the problem is _me_. _I'm_ not right. I'm too short for my dress size, so almost everything in the shops is either too big, too long or just God awful."

Two creases between his eyebrows appeared. "If that's the case, why not have one made for you?"

She laughed. "You have no idea how much it costs to get someone to design something; just altering an off-the-peg dress costs a fortune. I guess I will just have to keep looking."

"Isn't this something that your Best Woman is supposed to help you with?"

She smirked. Sherlock seemed determined to use that title; he wasn't willing to recognise the gender distinctions in nomenclature. She rather liked him for that fact.

"Janine is too busy. I took Sarah Chambers with me on my expedition to Selfrdges last week, but she's a nurse like me at the practice, so when we both disappear during a work day, it's a pain for the rest of the team. Anyway, one look on her face was enough to confirm what I already knew- the only dress I could even remotely afford there looked _horrible_ on me."

"Why does her opinion matter? What did John say?"

She smiled. "It doesn't work that way. The bride's dress must not be seen by the groom until she shows up at the altar."

He gave her a startled look. "That seems…rather high risk. Why?"

"It's bad luck."

He made a face that was halfway between scepticism and distain. "That's stupid."

She shrugged. "Maybe, but them's the rules, Sherlock. And I intend to do it all, no matter how illogical."

He kept flicking the marker pen between the fingers of his left hand, then looked back at the board. "I may have a solution for you." He stood up on the sofa and pulled down the sheet of paper that said "Dress" on it. Turning it over, he pulled off the yellow sticky note underneath- and handed it to her.

It had an address.

"It's at the end of Portebello Road; tell her I sent you." He turned back to the wall, the marker pen continued its wayward journey through the fingers of his left hand. By lunch time, they'd finished the decisions about the meal to be served at the Wedding breakfast. Mary knew enough of John's taste in food to make choices; she'd been cooking for him for the past year. Sherlock told her to tell the Arnsworth Castle to give them a sampler tasting before committing for sure: "A Sunday lunch for free, as you need to be saving money. You can use the trip to time the train journey and see how expensive the taxi ride is from Sawbridgeworth Station to Saint Mary The Virgin's church in Sheering."

An hour later, heading back to the Metropolitan Line tube station, she decided to take a detour before going home. _No time like the present._ She took the underground to Paddington and then carried on to Westbourne Park, walking northwest up Portabello Road. The moment she came down the side street of Golborne Road and saw the window display of the dark navy facade, she was entranced. Pushing open the door, she was transported into a world of old-school elegance and nostalgic romance. There was a delicate scent in the air- of rosewater and lavender, even gardenia. Everywhere she looked she saw pieces of vintage lace. She just stared in amazement. The dresses hanging up on the walls, the gossamer fragments of lace, bead work and pearls were suspended from the ceiling- it was like stumbling upon a treasure trove. The display cabinets were the sort you'd find in a home rather than a shop. Amidst the satin shoes and button gloves, there were photographs in silver frames, of brides from the past century.

"They're _wonderful."_ She must have said it out loud, because a rich contralto voice answered, "Oh, I am glad that you like them." Then the door at the back of the room opened more widely and a woman walked out carrying a tray of tea with a broad smile of welcome. "Hello, I'm Jane Bourvis."

She was in her sixties, with blonde-grey shoulder length hair, a sensible black jacket over trousers, and a face that was more striking than beautiful. Around her neck she wore a number of gold necklaces and a pair of reading glasses on a chain. Eyes that wore their laughter lines like badges of honour were scrutinising her with pleasure.

"You're Mary Morstan."

Mary smirked. "Oh, I should have known that Sherlock would warn you."

That got a laugh. "Warn? No, not at all. He just phoned and said to treat you like royalty- and he gave me enough about you to be instantly recognisable. I have to say that his powers of observation are probably honed on criminals, but his description of you was uncannily accurate."

The older woman gestured to a comfortable arm chair. "Take a seat. I've just made a pot of tea. We can share it and talk about what you're looking for."

Mary gazed around the room. "I think I've found it. It never occurred to me that vintage was the perfect choice- but it is, and I've never seen so many beautiful dresses."

Jane laughed again. "Well, I wish everyone had that reaction; I'm afraid that vintage wear is a marmite thing- you either love it, or hate it. This morning I've already been a referee in a fight between the bride who wanted nothing more than the latest fashion, and her mother, who wanted to pass on her own wedding dress, have it re-modelled to bring it up to date. World War three that was. The daughter stormed out of the shop shouting that it was positively _ghoulish_ to wear someone else's dress."

While the woman was talking, Mary's eye had been drawn to a particular panel of fabric on a hanger. It was lace coloured a delicate cream, patterned with paisley shapes and flowers, with tiny beads of glass and pearls highlighting some of them. It caught the light, but not in a crude way that a sequin would have. She got up to look at it more closely. "It's wonderful."

"Edwardian- I bought it in Bolton; it was part of a dress made for a woman who was going to India to get married to a civil servant out there." She pointed out the shape of a palm fan, picked out in tiny glass beads. "She chose a tropical feel for that reason; but it has a story. When she got to India, she found her fiancé had died of a fever, so she kept it as a token of her love for him, even though she never got married. By the time it got to me, most of the fabric had perished- so many women didn't know how to store their dresses properly back then. I think it was the great grand-niece who decided to bring it to me to see if it was worth anything. This was all that was left- but it is enough for a bodice, if you like it."

She unclipped the hanger and brought the piece down. "Follow me."

Jane led her through the door at the back of the room, into another one which was lit from above by a skylight. "Take your jumper and blouse off- let's see how it looks against your skin."

She draped the fabric panel across Mary's bare shoulders. "Turn around."

Mary turned to see that the walls behind her- even the door they had come through- had mirrors on them and she took in the sight. The soft patina of the lace's age was so mellow compared with the harsh modern white wedding dress that she had tried on in the department store.

In the natural light from above, the tiny glass beadwork and the soft pearls drew the eye to the shapes of the fronds and some of the flowers. The effect of the creamy soft colour made her fair skin almost glow with health.

"Perfect."

Jane smiled. "Let me take some measurements, and then I will work up some designs for you. I've got plenty of other pieces that we can use to create the skirt and the veil. Something simple for both, but with enough to carry the theme forward and make it a cohesive whole."

Mary sighed. "But, it's going to cost the earth." She pulled the panel from her shoulders and handed it back to the woman.

"Not at all. You'll be paying only for the fabric pieces- and at cost. The design and the sewing is on me. It's the least I can do for Sherlock."

Mary gave an incredulous laugh; "Don't tell me- you owe him a favour? What on earth could he have done to help you? He's the one who said weddings were so not his scene. How do you even know him?"

Jane hung the panel back on the hanger and picked up a clipboard, writing Mary's name across the template image on the top page.

"This shop would not be here if it weren't for Sherlock Holmes." She picked up her tape measure. "I've always sold vintage clothes here; the Portabello Road is famous for it. But I decided twelve years ago to focus on wedding dresses. I'd only been at it for about eighteen months when I picked up my first big commission- a titled young lady wanted to re-purpose the lace from her grandmother's dress, which had been made in the 1940s. She was marrying into a very famous Italian family- the Ricolettis. They're from Milan, and are…well, serious names in the fashion industry. The groom's older sister ran the family's bridal wear brands, and wanted her to wear one of the Ricoletti designs, especially since the wedding was going to be held in Milan, where the couple had met during fashion week. In her opinion, all English designers were _pessimo_ , that's abominable, beastly in English- I had to look it up".

She measured the length of Mary's right arm and the width of her shoulder, noting down the number before continuing on to the left arm. "My client was determined to wear something English- but didn't want to offend her future sister-in-law, so she chose to re-use her grandmother's lace. It was a very diplomatic choice; the groom's family couldn't argue with a family heirloom."

"Will you wear high heels or flats? How tall is your fiancé?" Jane was now measuring from the floor to Mary's waist.

"He's five foot six and a half."

Jane smiled. "…and very proud of that half inch, I am sure."

Mary giggled. "We fit perfectly- and I like to tease him that it's the reason why he's marrying me."

"So, a small heel, not much over one inch."

Jane now stood back and looked at Mary. "Drop your trousers, Miss Morstan."

Mary complied, but felt a little awkward standing there in her bra and pants- a little exposed.

Jane gave her a gentle smile. "You are a little self-conscious about your figure."

Mary nodded. "I'm not one of those young things that want to show off my naked back, arms or shoulders. I'm forty one years old and look like it, too; I don't want to be mutton dressed as lamb."

Jane snorted. "Hello magazine has a lot to answer for- or rather the youth cult's fascination for celebrities does. The first half of the twentieth century knew that women wanted to look beautiful on their wedding day- not like a piece of meat in a market. Thankfully, the market is starting to turn in my favour; demure is becoming fashionable amongst the monied classes, who don't need the bling of celebrity dresses. When I first started out, it was harder."

She measured Mary's hips. "It's not easy for a small business like mine. I can't afford catwalk shows or big fashion shoots for the magazines. I'm only me- so I can't go traipsing all over the country to all these wedding fairs. Advertising is expensive; I have to rely on word of mouth, which was really hard when I was first starting out. So, the Knatchbull dress was a big deal for me- the fashion elite all over Europe would see her in newspaper photographs."

"How did Sherlock get involved with a wedding in Italy?" Mary's curiosity was piqued.

"Hold your hands out in front of you, please." Jane slipped the tape around first Mary's left wrist and then the right. "The dress I made for Miss Knatchbull was …perfect, if I do say so myself. She came in for the penultimate fitting, and was just thrilled with it. The only thing left to be done was the hemming, because she'd found it difficult to find the right pair of shoes to go with it. I locked up the dress in my cupboard," Jane gestured to a door at the side of the room, "and went home certain that this dress was going to bring me to the attention of all the right people."

"Imagine my horror when the next morning I came in, unlocked the door and found that someone had taken a pair of scissors to the bodice- ripped a great big gash all the way down the front."

Mary's shock showed in the face reflected back in the mirror. "Why would anyone do that?"

Jane smiled ruefully, "My reaction, too. And then I went on to think about _who_ would do such a thing, before trying to figure out the _how_. Of the three, the how was the oddest. Back then, I was the only one sewing." She pulled on one of the chains around her neck, and extracted the two keys that lay hidden below the neckline. "I kept this hanging on the door knob of the dress room when I was in the shop, and took it home at night. One key for the room, one for the shop. So, I couldn't figure out _how_ it had happened- and without that, _who_ and _why_ were just impossible."

"So, you called Sherlock Holmes?"

Jane nodded. "The police were useless. All they said is that there were no signs of forced entry and no fingerprints. I took the dress apart, replaced the damaged panel and sewed for almost eight hours straight, but then panicked at the thought that it would happen again. So, I took the dress home with me, and slept with it hanging in my bedroom. But, was that enough? The dress was due to be picked up the next day on her way to Heathrow for the flight to Milan. If whoever had done this had murderous intentions towards the bride, then surely I had to tell her. But I was terrified of doing so- I mean, really- could a dress become an accessory to murder? How could I tell a bride about something so sinister? What if it was an act of vandalism aimed at me, rather than her? I was just in a mess. So, I called him."

"And he solved it."

"Oh, yes. Didn't take him long either. Once I'd told him the story, he took one look at my appointments book, and asked me about a client who had come in six weeks before, by the name of Cinghiale. It was easy to remember them because the mother and daughter came in all smiles and looked interested, and we agreed a brief, but then when they were supposed to come back to look at my designs, they didn't show. The phone number and address they left was a fake, so I didn't get paid for the design work either."

"Then he asked me if I spoke Italian- which I do not- sat at my desk and used my laptop to do some research. Within a few minutes, he showed me the coat of arms of the Ricoletti family- right smack in the middle of it is a boar, a wild boar, which in Italian is _Cinghiale_. He figured that the groom's sister was determined to make the bride wear one of her designs. She'd hired someone to get into the shop, take an impression of my keys and then gain entry at night. He called it a _reato di orgoglio_ , a crime of pride. The sister would come to the rescue of her brother's bride by providing a dress at the last minute when some vandal had destroyed hers, the story would gain them even more publicity, and everyone would be happy."

Jane pulled a gilded dining chair out from the side of the room. "One last thing to measure. Take a seat, please."

Mary did, and then watched with a bemused smile as the designer measured the spread of her bottom on the seat.

"This one is to ensure that we make the skirt full enough that you can actually move in the dress, and be comfortable. It is sad that a lot of wedding dresses look great when you are standing up for the photos, but are absolute hell to sit in during the reception. Will you be dancing in it?"

"Of course, so it can't be so long that I end up in a heap on the floor- but I don't want my ankles to show either." She wondered if John knew how to waltz. It would be rather nice in this type of dress to do the first dance as something more appropriate than a disco tune.

Mary had to ask, because she could not imagine the scene. "I do hope that you didn't let Sherlock anywhere near the bride? He'd not the most tactful soul. He would have told her everything, and that would have spoiled the wedding."

Jane laughed. "Of course not! I told her that I would ensure her mother took the dress from me, and kept it under lock and key at the hotel; no one should see it before the wedding. I made up this ridiculous story about how I'd surprised a paparazzi trying to break in to photograph the dress; that it was a sort of exposé he was after, to embarrass the sister-in-law, and that her mother must not let the dress out of her sight at any point." She put the clipboard down. "You can get dressed again."

"All's well that ends well." Mary pulled her clothes back on, while Jane went over to a bookshelf set into the side of the room and pulled out two thick books.

"These were produced by a photographer who specialised in weddings. His father's shop was bombed in 1941, but he'd taken his albums home with him and kept them in the cellar. I bought the whole lot of them when the son retired in 1989- and they are _so_ useful for giving you some ideas about the sort of style you'd like. We'll go back into the warmth of the front room, I will fix you another cup of tea, and let you browse to your heart's content. When you see something you like, just tag it with a yellow sticky."

Mary spent a pleasant hour doing just that- enjoying the family photographs of brides she'd never known. It made her nostalgic, and for the first time in decades, she thought of her own mother, and the sadness of having to leave everything behind. She had told John that her parents died in a house-fire, and that all family memorabilia had gone up in smoke. In some respects, there was an element of truth in that falsehood. She was the one who set fire to their old home, after her father died; it was necessary. Her past had to be eliminated- no trace could remain. No photograph, no letter, no official record. Expunged from history. She tried to conjure an image up- had she ever seen a wedding photo during her childhood? Probably not. Weddings in the Czech communist era were civil ceremonies, with rules strictly applied by the KSČ, the Komunistická strana Československa. Why make a fuss about the practical joining of two comrades? There were no religious elements or wasteful fripperies like wedding dresses. _Perhaps that's why I want the fairy-tale version. This is for you, mum and dad._

oOo

When Mary left Baker Street, Sherlock resumed work. He was on his sixth iteration of the day. Every step of the project plan was reconsidered- each objective, with its attendant retinue of activities, and every activity was considered in terms of a great number of specific timed tasks. He'd made an error somewhere on the 214th to 220th tasks, all related to the transport of guests and it had thrown the whole calibration out. To solve it would most likely cost money. He really needed Mary to sort the dress cost today, if at all possible. As one task was done, another could be planned- costs calculated, timetable scheduled, risks assessed, contingency steps taken to hedge that risk. Decisions to be made would then be raised with the various parties, and then letters or e mails exchanged, evidence of confirmation and contract.

The data that could be seen up on the wall were for John and Mary, and showed only a fraction of the clues he needed to run the whole programme of calculations, identifying the critical path and dependencies afresh, each time a single task was completed. Sherlock kept it in his Mind Palace; he'd built a temporary extension called the Orangery. It would be demolished immediately once the last bill was paid.

He sighed and closed his eyes. It was the 217th step- he'd underestimated how long the taxi out of Sawbridgeworth station took to get to the church in Sheering and return; the one minivan that served the village wouldn't be able to cope with the volume, so he'd have to investigate a bigger firm from Harlow, down the road.

He started over- the seventh iteration. Every time he found a flaw or made an adjustment, he had to resume at the beginning. It had become a ritual- at first just to persuade himself that he could do this; he could control the process so that John and Mary got the wedding they deserved, rather than the one they could afford. Then, as time wore on, the ritual of running the whole thing through every time took on an edge of anxiety. If he didn't do it this way, something would go wrong. He always "missed something," and repeating it again and again would mean that he wouldn't.

Iteration- the word suited the task perfectly. He could hear Mycroft's stentorian tones as he defined the word; "It means the repetition of a mathematical or computational procedure applied to the result of a previous application, typically as a means of obtaining successively closer approximations to the solution of a problem. In other words, practice makes perfect. Try again."

At the time, Sherlock was wrestling with his shoelaces; he was seven. Mycroft had already informed him that most children had mastered the motor skills required between the ages of five and six; he had done so himself at four.

"Not important." Sherlock shouted this, because his brother was making him anxious, and that made it even harder to deal with the laces. It was easier to find the finger positions on his mother's violin.

The shout invoked a sigh from the fourteen year old, and an eye roll. Sherlock knew both were indications that Mycroft was losing patience- that and his tendency to use ever bigger words. Ever since he'd gone away to prep school, when he came back home he used big words with Sherlock, who knew what some of the words meant- if he didn't, he found them in the dictionary later and always remembered them after that.

The lace in his left hand wriggled out from the thumb and first finger as if it had a life of its own, and the loop he'd made disappeared. He huffed, and started over again. All of it made his hands want to stop holding the laces at all; he'd feel much better if he could just flap them and forget about the shoes.

He stood up and slapped his shod foot down in front of Mycroft. The untied laces flapped onto the floor, his hands mirrored the motion. "You do it."

"Then you will never learn."

"I can't do it when you're staring."

"Then sit on the sofa. And I will sit in the chair and read my book. I won't watch. When you've done it right, tied and untied and tied again a correct bow on each shoe, then we will be ready to go out."

"I want my wellies; they don't need laces."

This got the eye roll again. "You need to be dressed _properly_ , Sherlock. Wellies are not proper footwear when you are dressed like this". Mycroft straightened Sherlock's blazer jacket, and buttoned the top button on the white shirt that itched like mad and made Sherlock want to rip it off and throw it out the window. The dreaded tie was still on the hanger; Sherlock wouldn't even look at it. He absolutely hated the tie; it felt like a snake was trying to strangle him.

"Once your shoe is tied properly, then I will do your tie for you; a Windsor knot is just… beyond you." He picked a piece of fluff off the jacket sleeve and then gestured to the sofa. "Everything in its proper place; otherwise you will embarrass us."

Sherlock felt his lower lip protrude a bit and wondered why his face did that when he was upset by Mycroft's obvious signs of disappointment.

"Tie your shoes, Sherlock Holmes." That was delivered in a tone used to order the staff about, like Father used on occasions. Mummy never had to resort to it, and she didn't _order_ Sherlock to do anything either, but Mycroft eventually got annoyed and started ordering him about.

It was ever thus, Sherlock mused as he looked at the evidence wall over the sofa. Mycroft taught him all about OCD. _I must have driven him mad._

As a so-called "adult", he now had some sympathy for his brother's attempts to create order where there was none in his life. And having watched Mycroft over the years, he also knew that his own constant reiteration of every step of the wedding plan was now becoming compulsive. Too many people trivialised the notion, and simply called anyone with an attention to detail "OCD".

Sherlock knew better. It wasn't the detail, or even the ritual rehearsal of all of the details that made someone develop the pathological behaviour disorder- it was when that behaviour interfered with everyday life.

 _This whole wedding interferes with my life._ That was a fact, and one he could not avoid thinking about- unless he filled his mind up with the minutiae of it all. Re-calibrating the plan, going over it from start to finish- he _knew_ that it was a form of avoidance behaviour on his part. But he was no more able to stop it than he'd been able to learn to tie his shoelaces at four, as Mycroft had. _We're wired differently._

It wasn't just the worry of getting something wrong, of some mistake on his part spoiling the wedding. There were other things that were lurking in the shadows, too. If he turned fast enough, sometimes he caught a glimpse, heard a rustle or a whisper that told him he was being foolish. But then the impression, the hint of something, just dissipated, burnt off like a morning mist, if he tried too hard to really _see_ what the problem was.

He turned his back on his anxieties and faced the wall, diving into the mundane, turning his attention to the wedding invitation proofs, the sourcing of a florist, a photographer, limousine driver- the "extras" needed to deliver this particular performance to the standards required. The wedding gift registry had been set up with the John Lewis Partnership. As they were already living together, it was important to indicate what the couple really needed, or run the risk of duplicating toasters and the like, or ending up burdened with something neither of them actually liked. Sherlock thought it a logical approach. He liked the logic and the order of it all; being able to tick off one task gave him satisfaction. It soothed the anxiety.

Actually, it was more than that- the feeling was _relief_ \- each tick represented one more thing he hadn't cocked up, made a mess of, or missed something important about. The mistakes he'd already made so far were usually something social, a bit of odd protocol, myth and superstition that seemed to be the warp and weft of nuptial events. To tick the box made at least one ticking bomb safe.

At the moment, he needed that reassurance, because too many other things that he once enjoyed doing were becoming… _problematic._ Take case work, for one. He'd come back from Hartswood with John's assurance that he still wanted to be "involved" in cases, as much as he could, given his job and his need to spend time with Mary "that isn't all about wedding stuff". So, Sherlock had been very careful, choosing to contact him only when the cases seemed both interesting enough, but not the sort that would take ages of round-the-clock activity or that would end up putting John's life at risk.

But he couldn't always predict. That was the nature of crime. What John was today writing up as "The Case of the Poison Giant" was just one such example. Someone had targeted John _again_. This time photographs of six pearls had been sent to John by email. That had annoyed Sherlock enough for him to "borrow" John's laptop to find the sender. That led them to the Wapping warehouse belonging to Daniel Brennan- a very dead Daniel Brennan. Even the manner of the death was tailor-made for the Consulting Detective. Someone knew that Sherlock's curiosity would be piqued by the use of a murder weapon in the form of a poison dart. And not just any dart- not the sort that vets used to put a wild animal to sleep.

"This is an Amazonian tribal dart." He held it between tweezers borrowed from the Forensic team, and drew it closer to his nose, taking a deep sniff.

John noticed his smile. "How is it that a poison dart can actually make you happy?"

"The thrill of discovery, John. This is a _proper_ dart, fired by a blowgun, not an air rifle. But I need to examine it further to see just what kind of poisoner we are dealing with. We might be lucky; the toxin of choice comes from the Amazonian tree frogs."

The CSE gave him a look. "Toxin of choice? You do know that makes you sound a bit..um…weird?"

It was way beyond the skills of the Forensic Service, but right up his street, so Sherlock took back to Baker Street swabs of the dart's poison and spent two happy hours investigating. On Sherlock's instructions, John took custody of the laptop, once it had been dusted for prints. Two matches came back- the dead man's and those of a convicted thief by the name of John Swandale.

Lestrade wondered if Brennan might have stolen it, and this was a revenge killing.

Sherlock just shook his head in mock sadness. "Really, Detective Inspector; is that the best you can do? If the hit was orchestrated by Swandale, then surely he'd make sure that the laptop got back to him."

He took the laptop and said John would have a look while he investigated the dart.

It took Sherlock all of ten minutes to crack Swandale's password. "I have my doubts about a criminal whose password is the name of his first major theft." He sniffed and handed the laptop over to John. "You take a look; I want to do something more interesting."

One look through the microscope lens had told him that the poison he transferred from the swab onto a slide wasn't a derivative of curare- that was a plant, whose sap produced a blockage at the junction of the neuroskeletal systems, affecting the axon gateways of the synapse. Curare was basically a muscle relaxant, which in sufficient doses could kill. _Boring._

At the obvious signs of animal cell structure rather than plant, Sherlock's smile reappeared. "And now the question is whether this poisoner has used the Rolls Royce of tree frog poisons, or settled for something more easily obtainable."

 _Phyllobates_ was a genus of amphibians that he'd studied before at Cambridge. Sherlock had particularly enjoyed the challenge of trying to distinguish the biochemistry of the toxins produced by _phyllobates aurotaenia_ from that of _phyllobates bicolor_ ; he'd done a mid-term paper in his second year of biochemistry on the subject. Remembering that fact made him think- if he didn't know that Moriarty was dead, Sherlock would have said that this new puzzle was worthy of his five pips game. The six pearls made a connection with the five pips just too obvious for words. But, who knew enough about him to create such an elaborate scheme?

His anxiety ratcheted up a notch when John called him over to the laptop. "Swandale's definitely implicated, if not actually the killer. Take a look- he's got the floorplan of the warehouse on his desktop- and the file data says it was last accessed an hour before the murder."

Sherlock ransacked the machine code for ten minutes, and then nodded. "This is his, and it has enough data on here to give a prosecutor ample ammunition."

"Then why leave it behind?"

Sherlock just looked at him. And then sighed. " _Obviously, s_ o we could find it, John. There can be no other reason. He's not a complete idiot. So, Swandale is challenging us."

"Why would he do that?"

"Perhaps the more interesting questions are why would a jewel thief be hired as an assassin and why would he use a murder weapon more commonly seen in the Amazon? Both are rather…exciting."

John asked a question, "What makes tree frog poison so exciting?"

Sherlock sat back down at the kitchen table for a moment and watched the doctor put down a cup of coffee by the microscope. It still surprised him sometimes to look up and find John doing things in the kitchen as if he still lived in the flat.

"You didn't hear me when I said I was going to make some coffee."

Sherlock shook his head, and then launched into the explanation. "The steroidal alkaloid of tree frog poisons is a neurotoxin that acts on the sodium ion channels of cells- keeping them open and permanently blocking nerve signal transmissions to the muscles. It's a particularly effective cardiotoxin, too- paralysis followed by massive release of acetylcholine in the nerves and muscles, destroying the synaptic vesicles."

John looked a little none-the-wiser for those facts, leading Sherlock to wonder yet again why British medical professionals specialised on their fields rather too early.

The next half hour was spent narrowing the choices. He could hardly contain his excitement when he realised that he was having his first proper look at the venom produced by _phyllobates terribilis_ , whose batrachotoxins were so lethal that a mere swipe of the golden tree frog's skin was fatal.

"The native tribes capture the frogs, and keep them in little cages- a constant supply of weaponry." He'd always rather liked the idea that the frogs didn't have to die; they got a cosy lifestyle and were well fed in exchange- a truly symbiotic relationship.

When he recounted these facts to John, the doctor seemed to pale. "What antidote should I be getting my hands on if you make a mistake? Acetylcholine actually helps on plant toxins, but you're saying that would be the wrong thing to use on this."

"There is no known antidote, and it's always fatal- usually within five minutes."

"You're making me nervous." John started pacing in the living room. "One touch of that stuff and you could die. Be sure to clean up properly, or you'll be responsible for Mrs Hudson's death when she comes to clean up after you."

"Relax, John. I've handled neurotoxins before." He waved his gloved hands at the doctor, but did not take his eye away from the lens of the microscope.

"And that's supposed to make me less nervous? We should be in a sterile lab, and you should be in a biohazard suit, not a Spencer Hart."

"I know what I am doing. However, your pacing is distracting, and that is not a good idea at the moment."

John stopped moving, immediately. "Why can't Mycoft's lot do the technical work? They've got labs set up for just this sort of stuff."

He didn't answer that because he knew that if Mycroft got involved, he wouldn't be allowed to pursue the case to its logical conclusion. His brother was still being annoyingly over-protective these days. Sherlock had identified the poison from almost the first look at the slide, but he still ran the tests because he never knew when he'd get the chance to work again with a real sample. He didn't tell John that he didn't need the test results to know where to go next. That was the problem, really- a bit like the wedding planning. He was consciously avoiding the big picture, and losing himself in the details- on purpose.

In both cases- the wedding and this one- thinking about the big picture made him unbearably anxious. The trap set up by James Swandale's laptop was too obvious, too crude to be taken terribly seriously. Swandale…the diminutive man was almost too well known as a jewel thief, had done time only once, but otherwise had used his lack of height to great advantage in his chosen trade. He'd been chosen because of this fact, and his method of murdering Brennan had also been chosen just as a way to entice Sherlock and John into a trap.

 _Why else hire Swandale as an assassin?_ His use of the pygmy blow dart to kill Brennan was…interesting- but certainly not in his normal modus operandi. Like a moth to the flame, Sherlock's attention was drawn to the trail of files on the laptop which led to the dwarf's next target, Giles Conover.

Sherlock asked John to locate Conover's home- one of those newly built houses in the style demanded by the nouveau riche these days. He looked over John's shoulder at the house particulars- it had been bought by Conover six weeks ago, and RightMove was still listing it: Abbots Wood, on Heathfield Road, Taplow, near Maidenhead.

He then closed the laptop and told John to go home.

"No, Sherlock. Where you go, I go."

"Not necessary. I can do this on my own."

"I'm not questioning your competence, but I am going with you."

"John, your presence is not required."

"Nor is yours, Sherlock. You could just hand all of this over to the police. Call Lestrade."

"By the time he could get things sorted with the Thames Valley police force, it will be too late. _I_ need to catch Swandale."

John tilted his chin and glared. "Why?"

"Because all this is an engraved invitation. I want to know who is setting this trap. It's not Swandale; he's not bright enough, and he doesn't have a grudge against me."

"Why are you taking this so personally? Maybe it's just another crime. You do get them now and then. Boring, I know, but it isn't _always_ about you."

"Need I remind you that you were sent the six pearl photos? That makes it personal."

John nodded. "Yes, it does. Personal…to me, not you. If you think I'm going to let you go without me, then you've not learned a damned thing since you got back."

Sherlock turned and pointed at the wall over the sofa. "I've made a serious investment of time and energy making sure you survive until a certain date in May. Mary will not be happy if I end up being the reason why the groom can't make the wedding."

"Shut up, Sherlock. This is non-negotiable." He shouldered his coat on, and handed Sherlock his Belstaff. "While you're wittering about weddings, a murderer is at work."

The train to Maidenhead from Paddington Station took nearly an hour; then the taxi up Cliveden Road dropped them about a quarter of a mile past the iron security gates of Abbots Wood. By the time they worked their way over the security fence and through the undergrowth from the road, it was late.

From the evidence they stumbled over on the lawn, the venom of the Brazilian tree frog was certainly effective at taking out the rock star's pack of Dobermans, but at least it meant that Sherlock realised that the dwarf was as good as a Yawalapiti at using the blow gun. They got into the house through an open French door- presumably left open by the murderer.

There were no lights on in the house, and no sound.

When John pulled out his gun, Sherlock whispered, "I thought you stopped using that when I was dead."

The doctor rolled his eyes before whispering back, "Since you insist on coming to these parties unarmed, I took a little precaution."

As they passed through the garden room, down the hall, past the kitchen, Sherlock realised the house was a minimalist white, with touches of black- which made it surprisingly easy to see even in the dark. But he was wary- the open plan of the rooms would give a blowgun a clearer target. He hugged the walls, and John followed suit. In the entrance hall, the grand staircase went up a floor, and also down. John nodded his head up with a question in his eyes. But Sherlock had seen something rather amazing hung on the wall: a Daisho. He took the Katana long bladed sword but left the Wakisashi short sword. The tempered steel whispered free of its scabbard.

John was grinning, and silently mouthed the word "pirate."

Sherlock smirked, but then a faint noise from upstairs caught his attention. They went up the staircase, slowly. Sherlock kept calculating trajectories for a dart, and tried to keep John behind him as the pair ascended. At least the marble meant no creaking floorboards to give them away.

They found the middle aged rock star in the master bedroom, tied to an exercise bicycle positioned in the bay window. He was bound and gagged so all he could do was dart his eyes towards the side.

Sherlock stopped at the door, and whispered to John, "don't go in any further until I say so." And then he entered, hugging the wall to the left, until he reached a doorway into what was presumably the bathroom or dressing room- the door was open. He looked back at John and nodded, so the doctor came in, announcing "Mister Conover; we're here to rescue you." But he stopped when Sherlock gestured, and went no further. If the killer was in there, he was not going to get a clear line of sight unless he made himself known.

When the mouth of the blowpipe appeared at the dressing room door, angling to take a shot at John, Sherlock pounced with the sword. In the battle of a bamboo tube against the Japanese steel, it was no contest- the first swipe took off a meter in length. Undeterred, the dwarf tucked the remaining length of the blowpipe under his arm, ducked under Sherlock's grasp and bolted into the bedroom. John couldn't shoot without risking the bullet hitting the Consulting Detective. Swandale took advantage and was out of the room in a flash and climbing up the stairs to the roof. Sherlock was in hot pursuit, with John bringing up the rear.

 _Ping_. Sherlock's mental rehearsal of the previous night's activities came to a sudden halt, and he pulled out his phone. He'd set up an email alert to tell him when John published anything on his blog. He linked out to the site and read down the page to the end.

… _We escaped, obviously. Sherlock's good with a sword and I'd bought a gun. One of them went off the roof and the other's currently in prison._

 _We never found out who was trying to kill us. I felt we should investigate further but Sherlock had already dismissed it as boring and irrelevant._

"No, not boring, and not irrelevant. Just too dangerous for you, John." Sherlock realised that whoever had put John in the bonfire was upping the ante. He'd deflected John's worries as much as he could, but had not been successful with his own- they had led him to a sleepless night, rather than the post-case crash that he normally endured. For him, the lesson was clear- he would need to be extremely selective in the future about what cases he took on when the doctor was with him.

He drew breath, trying to settle his nerves. Then he turned his phone off, slipped it into his pocket and faced the wall again. Sherlock started the eighth iteration of the day, and wondered how many more he would need before he felt calm again.

* * *

 **Author's Notes** : The dress designer is real, and her site is interesting to google. I had outlined this chapter BTW before the title of the Christmas Special was announced, and I am sticking with it. Abbots Wood is a real house- check it out if you want the visuals; all we saw on TV was the roof, so I have taken some liberties- still it works. I don't really pay much attention to the blog of "Doctor John Watson" as it has so many errors on it, but I am using it when referring to cases mentioned in the broadcast episodes.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five: T Minus 67**

* * *

"I need your advice."

Molly put down the rib cutter and turned away from the body to look at Sherlock. "You need… _my_ advice? About what?"

Sherlock interpreted her tone of voice as projecting both surprise and scepticism, as if the very idea of his seeking advice from her was somehow preposterous. He decided that the best strategy was to be honest. In this case, he wasn't trying to get access to experimental material or to manipulate her, he just needed specialist input from a disinterested third party, someone with more experience than he had in such matters.

"Sherlock?"

He realised that the gap between her question and the reply he had yet to make had somehow widened when he wasn't paying attention. That was happening more these days now that he was living alone. He took a while to think things through before he said them, sort of drifting inside his own head, unaware of time passing. There were occasions when he completely blanked out Mrs Hudson, without realising she was in the room. But, this time he _needed_ to talk to Molly; he just wasn't sure how. He wondered if it might be better to explain the wedding to Molly in an autopsy metaphor, to make her feel more comfortable.

His anxiety levels ratcheted up another notch. _I don't have time for this._ The pressure to tick another box or two had driven him to Barts and he needed to get back on schedule. He couldn't waste time trying to decipher her moods, or translate what he wanted into something easy. He pulled a folded sheet of paper and walked over to the empty dissection table.

"You're a woman." His tongue stalled on that.

She giggled. "Glad you noticed." Molly lifted her Perspex visor and then slipped it off.

"…engaged to be married. Therefore, the wedding process should not alien to you. It is to me." He paused for a moment, then his tongue caught up again, "… so tell me how to avoid making mistakes about the guest list and invitations."

"Mrs Hudson told me that you're planning the wedding for John and Mary. I thought she was joking. I wouldn't have thought that…um…" Molly ended rather abruptly with "…well, it's _way_ outside your comfort zone."

Sherlock was getting irritated by the number of people who questioned his aptitude to plan the wedding. He bristled and let rip: "On the contrary, my skills are transferable when I can be bothered. I'm better able than either or both John and or Mary to grasp what has to be done at every step and in what order, and at what cost - to project manage the entire process. It's no more complicated than a good serial murder case, if considerably more tedious."

He realised that all that had come out rather quicker and angrier than he had anticipated.

"Whoa, Sherlock; I'm not saying you can't do this." She looked startled by the abruptness of his tone.

He gave her a strained smile, and decided to resort to humour. It was a fall-back when he thought he might have said something awkward. "In _The Case of the Best Possible Wedding_ , as John would call it on his blog, it's actually easier to get answers to the questions because no one is going to go to jail over what they say to me."

Sherlock knew his ploy had worked when she raised her hands with a smile as if surrendering. "Start your interrogation, Sherlock. I'm willing to confess what I know. But why don't you ask John and Mary? It's their wedding, after all."

He pointed to the paper. "I don't want to undermine their belief in my ability to organise their wedding by seeming to be too stupid about these things." Sherlock shifted his shoulders; this was so _awkward._

"You're never _stupid_ , Sherlock."

He remembered what happened at Christmas three years ago, and then watched as she did, too. He almost cringed inside as she qualified her statement, "Well, rude maybe, but never intentionally hurtful…anyway." But she said it whilst smiling, and Sherlock was again perplexed. She had been upset at the time when he'd reeled off his deductions about her, but was now smiling. What did that mean?

Was she teasing him? Sherlock found it hard to identify Molly's motivations and behaviours- whenever the conversation strayed outside the technical issues of pathology and autopsies. When did her humour become sarcasm, and if this was sarcasm, what did it mean? Was she criticising him, or "being polite," whatever that meant? There were times that he rather wished that she was still as tongue-tied and reticent in his company as she used to be. Ever since he'd come back, her reaction to him was different. He had trusted her with so much, and she'd kept his secrets. It created a sense of obligation on his part; he knew he should try not to hurt her feelings, but it was _so_ hard.

At the moment, Sherlock felt like he was trying to pick his way across a minefield- at any point he was going to step on someone's feelings with catastrophic results.

He kept his eyes on the list, and decided to plough on. "It's about social etiquette. They're working on the invitation list, and they keep referring to the term _plus one_. I understand the definition in theory, but I don't understand what it is in practice. Why can't they limit an invitation to just the people they want to be there?"

"Because it's the way things are done, Sherlock. 'Plus one' lets the invited guest choose the person they want to come with them."

This puzzled him. He repeated what she had said, "… _They want to come with them…"_ to buy himself some time. Once he had processed what that meant, he asked, "Why would an invited guest bring someone who doesn't know John and Mary well enough to deserve their own invitation? Why would a person attend a wedding of someone they didn't know?"

Molly's eyes told him one story- she was giving him what he thought might be a kind and sympathetic look, but then she was also biting her lip, too- as if stifling a laugh or maybe trying to hide her amusement at his stupidity.

She explained, "Because the invited guest wants to share the event with their Plus One, whoever they are. It's a _party_. John and Mary want people to have fun, so they let the guests choose who they want to have fun with."

He sniffed and tapped the list. "Then why did they invite Mike Stamford and his wife _by name_? Why are they choosing for Stamford? His wife doesn't know John; they got married when John was in Afghanistan. Why does a wife get mentioned, but your fiancé didn't?" He pointed out her name on the list-" _Molly Hooper, Plus One_. That implies you're free to choose, but you've already chosen Tom." Then he gave her a pointed stare, as if daring her to argue with his logic.

She flushed a bit pink. "We're not married yet, Sherlock. Maybe I'd rather have a girlfriend come with me- or even come alone. Tom and me- we're not joined at the hip, you know."

" _Joined at the hip…"_ He heard himself echoing her phrase _._ Repetition grounded him, a form of communicating in the now that needed no engagement with the brain. Then he caught up. _"W_ hat does that mean?" An odd image came into his head, of a four legged person trying to walk and would not move on.

"It's just a saying, Sherlock. Sort of a metaphor…or is it an analogy? I never know which is which…it means that two people are inseparable."

"Inseparable…" He rolled his eyes, seeing John and Mary, each with a pelvis that was somehow fused with the other's at the hip. Marriage...the wedding was an operation by the surgeon called Doctor Watson to create this bone bridge that could not be removed. And he was assisting in the operating theatre.

Reality kicked in. "Are you saying that you won't be inviting Tom to the wedding?"

"I don't know. He might not want to come, given the guests are my friends, rather than his or ours. Even after we're married, I'll keep my own friends."

"But you are getting _married_. You've made your choice; everyone else becomes irrelevant."

She winced at that but he didn't know why. Sherlock looked away from her back down at the paper. He'd done something wrong, again, but he didn't know what. It drove him mad at times- he felt ashamed, as he always did when he finally realised he'd done something stupid.

Feeling perplexed and embarrassed catapulted him back into his childhood, where everything he did seemed to crash into relationship rules he didn't even know, let alone understand. This wasn't the first time he'd misunderstood _Plus One_.

The first time it was his brother who ticked him off. "How can you _not_ know that you've just upset Mummy and Father again by asking him whether he is going to invite his girlfriend to go with him to the Royal Pharmaceutical Society Dinner? Sherlock, we've _had_ this discussion. You know what happened the last time; are you _asking_ him to hit you again?* What you said was just so hurtful to Mummy, too." Mycroft's reproof was clear.

"But…the invitation on the mantel didn't have Mummy's name on it; it just said 'Plus One'. So, I thought that meant the other woman he spends time with; otherwise, they'd put Mummy's name." He was cross. Being nine was no fun. No matter what he did, he always seemed to get people shouting at him.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and then glared. "I've been told I have to explain this to you, so I'm going to do what I was told. In there." He pointed to the door of his father's study. They were at the London townhouse, where Richard Holmes had organised a meal for Mycroft, who was on an exeat weekend from his last term at Eton. His birthday was in four days, but he'd be back at school by then. Mycroft had said he wanted to celebrate by having a meal with the whole family, and then go to a piano recital on Sunday.

Sherlock stomped into the study and turned to face Mycroft. "So, tell me what you have to tell me, and then let me go upstairs. I didn't want dinner anyway." He was in a right strop, and he didn't care whether Mycroft was bothered or not. He'd always hated his own birthday, and he thought everyone made far too much fuss about Mycroft's.

Mycroft just looked at him, with that face of disappointment he put on when Sherlock had done something wrong, yet again. Then he said, "All I wanted was for us to try to be a family, able to share a meal in some semblance of good spirit. By raising the issue of Father's infidelities again, you've made it impossible for them to put that aside for just an evening."

Sherlock was still angry. "That would be lying…It's _pretending_ ; everyone says I mustn't lie, so why can they? Why do you want them to lie?"

"You are so…" Mycroft hesitated, but then glared down at him. "…so _impossible._ Just go upstairs and leave me to sort out the mess you've made, _again._ "

He'd stormed out and up the stairs at speed. That night, Sherlock chose to sleep under the bed rather than in it. Somehow, it felt safer that way. And he stayed in his room and wouldn't come down to say goodbye when Mycroft went back to school. When he got into the car with Mummy, his Father spoke to her through the rolled down window- "Next time, leave him behind at Parham. I won't have him spoil our time with Mycroft again."

"Sherlock? Are you alright?"

Sherlock registered the fact that Molly wasn't at the side of his mother's car- and neither was he. That was then, and this was now. Molly was looking at him with some concern; he must have zoned out again.

"I'm _fine_." It was his stock answer these days. It was a rote answer for him; one of a drop-down menu of stock answers to people asking questions. It no longer had any meaning for him. What was "fine" in the current context? He had no idea. He just knew that saying anything other than that meant that people would start doing things to him that he didn't like. He wielded the word like a shield.

"Why do you need to know the names of the Plus Ones? What difference does it make?"

He couldn't tell her the real reason: _because one of them might be the person who is trying to kill John._ He knew that it would sound paranoid. After the six pearls, his anxiety levels were now out of control. He also knew that if he confessed that fact to any one, it would get back to the others. He knew that they _talked_ about him. If he hadn't known that before Hartswood, he certainly knew it now. Mycroft, John and Mary, the therapist Diane Goodliffe, George Hayter, even Esther Cohen*. They _talked_ about him when he wasn't there, and it made him feel- well, actually, he found it hard to deal with that fact.

 _Scared_ was the simplest way to sum it up.

It was symptomatic of his troubles these days. Just as he needed to be competent at social interactions, he was actually regressing. Without the day-to-day friction of having to get along with John in his living space, he was always struggling to get back into gear when in the presence of others. Crime scenes were the only place where he really felt at ease, because no one really expected conversation from him- just a solution.

It had been easier when he was Lars Sigursson. For two years, he switched between personas with relative ease. In the presence of any other person, he could be Lars- one of Moriarty's operatives, acting the role as if he owned it. Lars was smart, articulate, focussed and managed to project just the right combination of arrogance and veniality that made him totally convincing to the criminals he was working against. He had spent months building up the scripts, doing his research, learning his lines. Sherlock had inhabited the role as if a second skin; posture, gesture, voice and language. Only when on his own was he able to shed that skin and be himself.

Once he was back, it was harder. He had to shed Sigursson, but resume being Sherlock Holmes.

John had been wrong when he said, "You love this….being Sherlock Holmes."

When he'd answered "I don't even know what that's supposed to mean," the flippancy confessed a truth. He didn't know, but others seemed to think they did. Even with John, the persona of Sherlock Holmes was defined as what the doctor believed he was, rather than the truth. He'd not seen any of Lars Sigursson, or what he'd gotten up to when not inhabiting that role. John based his beliefs only on what he had seen in the past, rather than what he observed about the present. And in neither case was it the "real" person he was.

 _Out of sight, out of mind._ In his case, there was more truth to that than he would ever allow anyone else to know. He was only Sherlock Holmes when he was in the presence of people for whom that identity had meaning. And that meant repressing the things that Mummy had taught him were "not normal". When the doctor had been living in 221b, Sherlock had at times let himself relax, show a little bit of the "real" person he was, but even so, he'd triggered John's "a bit not good" and "timing" comments when they were in other people's company. In the confines of the flat, it was the violin, his sofa time-outs and his experiments that expressed his true nature. He'd not indulged in some of the more blatant behaviours that he would have preferred to use to ease his anxieties.

One of which he suddenly realised he was doing now without even being aware of it. He'd been running his finger up and down the edge of the guest list, feeling where the slightly rough texture of the paper met the cool slick metal of the table. The contrast was just the sort of stimulation that helped settle his sensory distress, when he was anxious.

Sherlock wasn't the only one who noticed his stimming; Molly was watching his finger, too.

The pathologist's question was still unanswered, and he watched her growing look of concern at his lack of response. Sherlock had a terrible moment of disorientation, seeing himself and her at the same time, as if from a point elsewhere in the room. It was like watching his blatant stim in slow motion through one of Mycroft's cameras- hideously embarrassing.

He willed his finger to stop. He drew breath. _Say something, anything._

"Do you think invited guests would mind if I asked them to tell us the name of their Plus One when they RSVP'd?" This came out much faster than he would have liked, but it might work. Sometimes it was best to deflect a question he didn't want to answer by asking one of his own.

She appeared relieved at the fact that he'd said something and gave it some thought. "Well, sometimes they won't know until late on; that could delay acceptances."

He frowned. "That's not acceptable. There are always a few that can't or won't come, but then John and Mary will have to invite others to take their place."

Now she looked surprised. "Why?"

"Because the venue costs have to be guaranteed; minimum number is fifty. So, if people don't come, that's wasted money. They can't afford to waste money."

Now the pathologist was giving him an odd look. "Okay, but…um- that's not the question you started with- why do you need to know the _names_ of the people, as opposed to the numbers?"

Sherlock realised that he'd underestimated her listening skills. He had been over every possible outcome of not knowing who was on the list and vetting them carefully. Repeatedly, from the best possible outcome to the worst most catastrophic one, and everything in between, in great detail as to how/why each could happen, and the likelihood of each outcome. Despite knowing rationally that the most catastrophic ones were not that likely, he still felt wildly anxious over the possibility that the person who was trying to kill John would show up at the wedding.

Molly now wore an expression of real concern, and he knew that he was not holding up his end of the conversation. He _hated_ conversation; it was so inefficient. The frustration at not being able to control the situation was making his jaw hurt.

Sherlock decided to risk a half-truth. "Hotel security needs to have the names- we have to keep uninvited people out."

She tried to stifle a smirk. "It's not a nightclub; you don't need a bouncer. I mean, who would gate crash a wedding?"

"Paparazzi would. Criminals would, if they want to disrupt things as a way of getting revenge for us putting them behind bars. We have _enemies_ , Molly."

"Oh!" She looked startled. "I hadn't thought of that."

"No, well, I _have_ to think of things like that. And contain the risk so it doesn't alarm John or Mary."

"Okay, I get it now. Well, look- the simplest thing is to wait until the people with a plus one say yes, and then when they do, you can contact them by phone or email to ask about their plus one. That way, you can do it without tipping off John or Mary that you're checking up."

He nodded. She'd just validated his original idea. It would allow him to vet the guests, quietly. He'd wanted to try it out on her, but by coming up with it herself, it made it easier for him. Phoning these people would be next to impossible- he _loathed_ speaking on the phone. If he couldn't see the other person, it was hard to know anything about them; he relied on his visual ability to observe the truth. But, if phoning was the only way to keep John alive, then he'd steel himself for the ordeal.

"Thank you, Molly. That's a good idea."

She gave him a tentative smile. "What else can I help you with?"

Given how difficult this first question had proved, his resolve to tackle the others withered. He could only manage so much awkwardness at any one time.

"I'll come back later to ask you about other stuff."

She smiled back, and this time, he was able to see it as relief. "Yes, of course. It's nice to be useful to you on something that doesn't involve a dead body."

He swept up the guest list and strode out of the mortuary. _Another box ticked._ He started the ninth iteration of the wedding plan in his head that day, moving through each step as a way of grounding himself. It had become a soothing process, a bit like one of the Tibetan mantras. Repetition and perseveration could be useful traits, not just evidence of his defective mind. With each box ticked, it was another step forward through the mine-field. He was determined to get this right- his gift to John, his atonement for all the hurt he had caused his friend.

Halfway up the stairs to street level, his visual grasp on reality fragmented. One moment he was not even thinking about going up the step, and the next moment nothing made any sense at all. What his memory told him should be a window letting light into the stairwell became a blank rectangle of white, disassociated with anything else other than the taste of iron. Bannisters were straight dark lines, unconnected to anything. They spoke to him in the key of G major, and smelled of cinnamon. Behind him from somewhere he heard sounds, but could not tell what they were. Voices? A door opening? He didn't know; the noise didn't make any sense and it frightened him. He grabbed almost blindly at the stair rail, missing it completely as his depth perception deserted him.

There was a sharp pain in his right knee, and he looked down but couldn't make sense of what he saw. Rationally, he knew he had fallen, and the edge of the step had jammed into his knee. Sherlock put both hands onto what he guessed was the step, afraid that he was going to keep falling through a floor that he could not trust as being there.

Then there was something beside him, and he shied away, unsure of what it was. There were noises, and then he felt pressure on his arm, and under his shoulder. Frightened, he shoved it away and moved away to the right, where he collided with something metal. Grabbing it, he levered himself upright. Then fright derailed into flight and his mind disconnected from his body as it moved of its own accord, oblivious to what his disordered senses were saying.

As he made it out of Barts onto the street, he was able to ease his panicked panting long enough to close his eyes and take a deep breath. When he opened his eyes, order had been restored. Whatever had just happened was over, but it left him badly shaken. Losing control like that was a sign that he needed to find somewhere _safe_ , soon. He called over a passing taxi and threw himself into the back, saying "Pentonville Road".

He could not go back to Baker Street; not in this condition. It was no longer the place it had once been. Mrs Hudson was wrong when she said that while he was away she'd "kept everything just like it was- just how you like it."

It was a lie. The version of the flat that he took with him in his Mind Palace was perfect -everything in its proper place. No matter what hellhole he ended up in, no matter how often he had to come to terms with new places, strange faces on the road to dismantling Moriarty's network- none of that mattered as long as he could retreat at the end of the day to his Mind Palace version of 221b.

Once back in London, Sherlock could not help but compare his Mind Palace version of Baker Street perfection with what confronted him each morning. Everywhere he looked, he could see what _wasn't_ there: John. His things. The physical evidence of their co-habitation. There were gaping holes in the fabric of the flat, and they were all he could see. The place hummed a funeral march in the key of D# minor.

 _Everything_ had changed _._

The count-down on the wall showed him that the change was irreversible. A ticking bomb in the train carriage of his well-being and there was no off switch. It was enough to drive him to the comfort of old habits. Fighting off the cravings just tightened the noose of anxiety. So far, he was still clean, but having his transport system constantly awash with the adrenaline of anxiety made it hard to control his other forms of release.

Being aware of Big Brother via Mycroft's surveillance cameras meant Sherlock kept the more obvious behaviours under control while in the flat. But, now, when the pressures seemed to be increasing, when his anxiety levels were rising, when he kept being confronted by the fact that he was no closer to solving the problem of who was trying to kill John- well, he couldn't keep up the façade on a twenty four/seven basis. He needed some down time.

 _Which bolt hole is best?_

At this time of the year, a lot of his choice spots were cold, damp and miserable. Leinster Gardens was over a tube line; noisy as hell and he didn't think he could cope with that at the moment. The bolt hole of choice was on Pentonville Road; he'd used it for the de-frag after he broke and re-broke his wrist for the third time in Gloucestershire. But a twinge in his knee reminded him of just how hard it was to gain access to it. And the fact that a medicine chest of pain relief in more than one form would be there, too.

He opted for Dagmar Court. It had a number of advantages. Although it was highly likely that both Lestrade and Mycroft were aware of the place*, he wouldn't be gone long enough for them to start looking. Sherlock pressed the red button to connect the microphone in the back to the cabbie. "Changed my mind; head for Tower Gateway." There was one particular place where he knew he could change taxis without being spotted on camera, and yet was busy enough that Mycroft's surveillance team would be chasing shadows for hours. He then switched off his phone and removed the sim card and the battery, slipping both in his pocket with the useless phone, now confident that his movement would not be traced.

Half an hour later, as he limped south on the Isle of Dog's Thames pathway, he left the trendy buildings of Canary Wharf behind him and headed for the more mundane Samuda Estate; its five buildings housed some fifteen hundred people. Built in the mid-1960s, it was now managed by the Tower Hamlets Council- which suited him perfectly. As the third most deprived borough in the country, Tower Hamlets didn't have the revenue base to do up the derelict underground car parking areas that had been built, but then fallen into disrepair. This was council housing; every resident was sure to be on housing benefit. Security had always been dodgy; the locals knew better than to park cars down there- it was like an invitation to have them broken into or stripped down and left on blocks. That said, not many could afford a car, even a clapped out banger. The place was definitely down-at-heel. Graffiti abounded, drugs changed hands, squatters tried to move into the underground space. The council threw in the towel in the late 1980s and the garages were blocked off, and left to rot*.

Sherlock was heading for a bolt hole he had not been to in more than four years. It had once been a convenient place to stop in and enjoy the cocaine he'd bought from the dealer who worked the Samuda estate. He needed it for a different reason this time. He'd finally put a name to it- that shadow he kept catching out of the corner of his eye, the high pitched whine just beyond even his range of hearing. It was depressing really, to be able to give its howling song a name. Well, it was a lament, actually- or perhaps a dirge- called depression.

It affected him in a way that most people in his life had never understood. Because he didn't express emotion the way that most neurotypicals did, it was rarely diagnosed as such. People saw and judged his behaviour, but didn't observe what it meant. But he knew it for what it was. It was a beast that lived in the dungeon of his Mind Palace. For the most part, he tried to ignore it. And succeeded, often enough. He buried it at the deepest levels, along with some unpleasant memories of people he'd prefer not to think about. Moriarty was down there. So was his father. Both were next door to the black thing called depression.

But occasionally, a keening whine rose up from the subterranean levels into the corridors of his Mind Palace. Like fingernails on a blackboard, he heard the scratch of its claws on his skin. It made him want to run, to scream and join in a chorus with the beast's howling. To really, finally _let loose._ He tried to anchor his mind, stuff his ears with the cotton wool nonsense of John and Mary's wedding. If he filled his day with the ridiculous paraphernalia of their nuptial rites, he might be able to drown out the howls coming up from the basement. Jeremiah Clarke's trumpet voluntary became a shield; he turned up the volume loud, and ignored the mournful loneliness in that howl from the bowels of the basement.

But the anxiety crept in the back door, seeped in through the pores of his skin, became locked into his muscle memory. Sherlock moved like one who was aware of the hunting wolf about to break loose, running down the corridors. He resolutely looked away, not willing to make eye contact with the beast in his mind's eye. _I'm not prey; look elsewhere- I'm_ _fine_ _!_ The beast throwing itself against its chains in the basement knew better. It was just biding its time.

As a result, Sherlock knew he had to do whatever was necessary to get his senses back on track. The incident in the Barts stairwell was the first sign of the door to the basement being torn apart. The situation called for extreme measures.

As he picked the locks on the door guarding the stairs down to the car park of Dagmar Court, Sherlock could hear the sound of the beast in the harsh squeal of rusted metal being forced to yield. He used his pocket torch to find his way across the debris-strewn garage area to the far corner- an abandoned store-room in which he could find some refuge from what was hunting him. As he came closer, the dopamine rush of anticipation pushed away the adrenaline of anxiety.

The room was full of stale air, but he didn't care. The torch showed him in the evidence of dust that no one had been in the room since he'd last used it. No furniture, nothing but bare walls and concrete floor. Because he'd thought it possible that refurbishment of the garages might happen while he was away, he'd cleared out everything the last time he'd used it, and not bothered to re-stock it yet. _Perfect_. He wanted no distractions, no temptations. Just solitude, away from the beast.

Sherlock took off the Belstaff and his suit jacket, hanging both on a hook on the back of the door, left there by some caretaker decades before. He then toed off his shoes, followed by his shirt, vest, trousers, left sock, right sock and finally the underpants, all of which he carefully folded and stacked. It was cold, but naked felt good- no friction of seams, no rasp of fabric, or restriction of leather shoes. The cold gave his skin something else to think about.

He sank down with his back against the cold cement block wall and just…let go.

Like a snake sloughing off an old skin, he shed the restraints that kept his hands in check. His right hand found the point where the wall and the floor met, and his index finger began to test the different textures. The twin sensations obliterated thought, and replaced them with focused stimulation. Sherlock switched off the torch, welcoming the dark. That was a distinct improvement. The EMDR therapy had eliminated his PTSD trigger of darkness and bright light, which was a relief. There were no similarities between this and the Chinese hell-hole he'd been locked in. This time, with nothing to see, his eyes could rest, knowing that he was in control of light.

His left hand began to move in what was a wrist-strengthening exercise learned long ago. His physiotherapist who gave him the exercise had no idea he had handed a fifteen year old boy with a broken wrist the perfect excuse to stim. Then he got his toes in on the act, each one clenching in order and then releasing, in time with the hand flap and the finger stroke.

Repetitive physical actions gave Sherlock the means to escape the beast. Locked into the process, he was able to slip his mind into neutral, to ignore things that were causing anxiety. He was able to control his stimming, and would not get lost in it- ten minutes of each ritual would be enough to re-set his sensory functions. First, the physical stims with his hands and feet. Then he would turn to each sense. Oral and taste – in the dark, he would run lips and then tongue over different surfaces- his skin, the cloth of the Belstaff, the wall, alternating with a soft bite of his lips- just to the point of pain. He found the pain intensified the taste and scent. Already, the pain in his knee was providing a useful background music to soothe his nerves.

Sherlock then tested his hearing. Like a bat, whistling a single tone- almost a drone- and then moving his head right and left, to note how the pitch and echo changed when he altered his position- first close to a wall, then away. Repeating that same whistled tone exactly the same pitch and length of time, every time. If he ran out of breath or broke the drone of the whistle, he had to start over.

Then he'd work on getting his visual sense back on stream, using the torch to shine a light on a particular surface- as many different textures as he could manage, getting up very close to it and observing what he saw. Then he'd back his eyes up a foot, and do the same thing to that surface, registering the differences.

Finally, he put it all together. He put his torch into the pocket of the Belstaff, shining the beam onto the ceiling. The single beam of light was used as his anchor, when he went to the middle of the room and executed a series of pirouettes _en dehors-_ on his left leg, as his right knee wasn't up to it at the moment. Spins were the final stage, when he would use all of his senses to recover his balance. His dance teacher at Harrow had never realised what relief Sherlock had when he was finally able to spin without the other boys looking at him like he was someone demented.

"If you have to stim, Sherlock, find ways to disguise it." His mother's advice still held true more than two decades later. In this case, he could ditch the disguise; the walls of the store room in Dagmar Court gave him shelter from judgment.

The endorphins released over the hour soothed him. It wasn't the euphoria of a cocaine rush, but it was enough to sweep aside the excess lactate that had built up in his blood system, driven there by his anxiety. People rarely understood that stimming had a _purpose_.

At the end, he was so cold despite the physical exercise that he was pleased to get dressed again. As ever, he dressed in exactly the same routine as he had been taught by his mother when he was four. Every single time he'd got dressed since that day, he heard her voice, quietly counting out the steps, which he always heard in his mind:

"One, the underpants. Two, right sock. Three, left sock. Four, vest; Five, shirt. Six, trousers; seven, belt. Eight, shoes. Nine, jacket; Ten, coat. Don't forget, if it's cold outside, the _plus one_. Remember eleven."

His hands took the scarf and doubled it over, slipping it around his neck, forming the loop by opening his left hand and then pushing the two ends through the loop with his right hand. Then he pulled the ends with his left hand and it settled properly against his throat.

 _Time to be Sherlock Holmes again_.

oOo

The pain in his knee beat a lovely rhythm with his stride, keeping up the sensory stimulation. There wasn't a sound from the basement levels of his Mind Palace. Sherlock felt better than he had for weeks. He was so relaxed that he was nearly at Crossharbour DLR station when he remembered to put his battery and SIM card back in the phone.

Immediately, the red light at the top of the phone blinked and the phone vibrated.

He tapped the messages icon and scrolled.

 **3.12 pm Molly rang- said you had a fall. You ok?** It was John's number. He deleted it.

Then two in rapid succession from Lestrade:

 **3.45** **A body, 29 Ryder Lane, SE4 1YW. Weird, definitely *not* boring.**

 **4.06** **Where are you? CoD = elephant! Zoo keeper and Watson on way.**

He typed a reply.

 **4.26 ETA 4.46. Keep the elephant there SH**

He took the DLR six stops south- under the Thames and then on to Lewisham station- only ten minutes. From here, it was only a ten minute walk to Ryder Lane. His bruised knee would hold out.

Lestrade greeted him at the door of what appeared to be yet another one of the identikit 1930s semi-detached houses that lined Ryder Lane.

"You're not going to believe this, but there is a real, live elephant in the middle of the crime scene." Sherlock hobbled past him into the hallway, where he could see John Watson standing in the dining room, along with a number of white clad forensic officers, obviously loitering with intent. The doctor came out into the hall.

"What happened to your leg?"

"Not now, John." Sherlock headed for the back of the house, where the living room was likely to be. John followed; Lestrade brought up the rear, saying "watch out. We haven't cleared the room yet."

Two steps into the room, Sherlock stopped and John did, too. Despite being told what to expect, it was still a shock to see a real live elephant in the living room. It was being stroked by a handler wearing a green waterproof jacket emblazoned ZSL on the back in big white letters. Nevertheless, the elephant clearly didn't like the intrusion of new people- it raised its trunk and trumpeted a challenge that was definitely ear-splitting inside the room.

The assault on his senses flooded his brain. The unexpected sight, so out of context in the room, was punctuated by a one hundred plus decibel noise, and underscored by the rank aroma of both urine and shit. The white living room carpet was fouled with the stuff.

The handler spoke quietly. "Just stay where you are." Then he resumed stroking the elephant, and her trunk lowered again. He was feeding her something from a bag by his feet. A low rumble could be heard from the animal.

Through the sliding patio doors, Sherlock could see a large van reversing up the back garden, adding its reversing beeps to the soundtrack of the crime scene.

"Do you know this elephant?" He asked the question very quietly, but pitched just loud enough to reach the handler.

"Yep. This is Myana. She was supposed to be on her way last night, on Turkish Airways flight 1984 from Heathrow. Before you ask, I have absolutely no idea how she got in here, or why. And if you give me ten minutes, I will have her out of your way."

"She may be a witness." Sherlock pointed to the crumpled form, only half of which he could see from where he was standing. The sofa was between him and the rest of the body. "Or even the murder weapon."

The handler shook his head. "Not this one; she's not a killer. Her mother was. Mya killed her keeper, Jim Robson, in 2002. Myana is her daughter."

Sherlock sniffed, trying to get past the overwhelming scent of animal dung. "You're from Whipsnade."

The handler nodded.

"I remember the case." He snapped on his pair of blue latex gloves.

John's eyebrows rose. "The _case_?"

"Coroner's inquest concluded that Mya killed her keeper with malice of intent. She trapped his legs with her trunk so he couldn't get away and repeatedly stepped on his head*."

The look on John's face told Sherlock he was imagining the damage. Behind him, Lestrade whispered, "Gross."

"Hmm." The van's reversing beeps had stopped, and two men also in ZSL gear were now opening the back doors and lowering into place a ramp that had metal fences, to ensure an animal would board. The patio doors were slid open just far enough to meet the fenced ramp.

The handler began to push on Myana's chest, leaning in with his weight. Obligingly, she backed up to the left of the coffee table and then executed a three point turn before following the handler up the metal ramp and into the truck. John closed the patio doors, as Lestrade yelled back down the hallway, "Coast is clear."

Immediately, three white suited Forensic officers came into the room. They stopped for a moment on the threshold, obviously stunned by the scent and the mess. Then one headed for the patio door to dust for finger prints, while a second joined Sherlock where he had crouched down beside the body. The third started taking photographs.

John had joined him, too, looking over the consulting detective's shoulder at the wound in the dead man's head. The doctor commented, "The elephant has an alibi, unless it's learned how to fire a gun."

Sherlock stood up, a little unsteady on his injured knee, before grinning. "Don't be so sure, John. An elephant's trunk has over forty thousand muscles compared to the human body's paltry six hundred and thirty nine."

Lestrade was standing with his arms crossed, his expression a mixture of bafflement and annoyance. "So, what the _hell_ is an elephant doing here, instead of in a zoo or running around the plains of Africa?"

"Not Africa, Lestrade. Myana is _Elephas maximus,_ not _Loxodonta._ The Asian elephant is more genetically similar to the extinct woolly mammoth than to the African elephant."

"That doesn't answer the question, Sherlock. What does an elephant, any elephant- African, Asian or European- have to do with this dead body?"

"There's no such thing as a European elephant; can you _really_ be so ignorant about zoology?"

Lestrade lost it. "What the hell has a full grown bloody elephant have to do with this body?"

"Myana is not a full-grown elephant; she's only two meters tall, and less than twelve years old, with another meter to go before she reaches full maturity. And the blood is not on the elephant; it's on the floor." Then Sherlock pointed to something else, a sports bag lying up against the wall, between the television and a bookcase. "Not just under the body; it also appears to be oozing from that bag as well."

Immediately, the forensic officer by the patio doors zeroed in on the sports bag, and used his gloved hands to pull the zipper. Lestrade and Sherlock leaned over the man's shoulder to see what was in the bag.

The photographer was in action, too, the flash in repeated use, as his colleague pulled something out of the bag.

Lestrade gave voice to his dismay. "That's a hand. A severed hand."

Sherlock gave him a grunt of agreement. "And there's more where that came from, if the amount of blood is anything to go by."

The officer by the body came over and spread a plastic sheet onto the carpet. "Keep it separated from the elephant shit and piss. The lab's going to have a hard enough time."

By the time the sports bag was empty, they had enough parts to make up a human body. John thought the butchery had taken place post mortem, "but here and soon after she died, because my guess is there is more blood here than you'd expect to find, if she'd been killed elsewhere."

The severed head's rictus grin stared up from the plastic sheet, her short brown hair plastered to the skull by blood.

"White female, Mid-thirties. Musculature well-developed; either she was a gym fanatic, or did something in the martial arts. Possibly military." Sherlock was talking to himself now, and looking at the pieces of blood-soaked fabric. He found what he was looking for and held it up.

"John, your professional opinion, please. You've seen enough blood soaked versions of this fabric."

John's brow furrowed. "Enough for a lifetime. That's a light olive anti-static cool max combat T-Shirt; part of the British Army's PCS."

The forensic officer had taken a fingerprint off the severed right hand onto his electronic scanner. His laptop was open and on the coffee table. It pinged and all eyes zoomed in on the message.

"Identity withheld. Contact S&ILs."

"Oh, shit." Lestrade's expletive was echoed by a sigh from John. Sherlock was already in motion, spinning away from the pair, while pulling his phone out and hitting speed dial.

A moment later, his brother answered. "What is it this time?" There was the usual blend of annoyance and boredom being used to cover concern that Sherlock was ringing him rather than texting.

"Someone is taking exception to your people these days. One dead confirmed by finger print." He gestured with his hand at the body by the sofa and then said to the Officer, "See if this one is playing for our side, too." Then he turned to John. "Take a photo of the woman's head, and send it to Mycroft."

"Where?" His brother's tone shed the ennui and became utterly focused.

"29 Ryder Lane, SE4 1YW." John took the photo and sent it by e mail.

"Let me talk to Lestrade. At least, I assume he is on the scene. I can hear police procedures going on in the background."

"That's not necessary. Tell me, and I can tell him."

"No. Hand the phone over. _NOW_."

"Piss off." Sherlock cut the connection. He wanted more time with this most intriguing case.

Barely three seconds later, Lestrade's phone rang. His "hello" was a tad wary. The silence lengthened as whatever Mycroft was saying to him made the Detective Inspector's eyebrows ascend his forehead.

"Alright, alright. Keep your shirt on. We'll get out just as soon as one of your people shows up. But, I'm not walking away from a crime scene until I've got someone to pick up the ball."

More silence, as Sherlock deduced from Lestrade's posture that a rather heavy duty series of threats was being made.

"B…" He was going to say 'bye', but changed it to "bugger just cut me off. We've got ten minutes at most. But I'm supposed to take you two out of the house right now."

Sherlock glared. "No."

"Yeah, he said you'd say that. I'm to tell you that he'll have my head instead of hers on a platter in front of the Chief Superintendent if you two aren't out on the pavement in three minutes." He pointed to the ceiling. "Big Brother will be watching. Apparently, he's got drones in the air already."

John's eyes widened. "Bloody hell, this isn't Afghanistan."

Sherlock was in motion. He picked up the CSE's laptop. "Any joy on the other body?"

"Nothing yet- so probably not one of ours."

Lestrade walked over and plucked the laptop out of Sherlock's hands, giving it back to the officer.

"And on that note, we're out of here."

Sherlock paced up and down the pavement outside of the house, still limping slightly. The pain now annoyed him, almost as much as his brother's attitude. The relaxation of the afternoon's private session at Dagmar Close had evaporated. Now, a new kind of anxiety was taking hold while Lestrade kept going on about the elephant. "They must have delivered the elephant the same way the Zoo collected him."

"Her." Sherlock muttered as he passed the DI.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "What difference does it make whether the elephant is male or female, Sherlock?"

"None." He was so annoyed by his brother's interference that he was reduced to monosyllabic answers.

Lestrade carried on. "So, someone comes with an unknown victim accompanied by an agent, shoots him on the spot, kills the agent, chops it up and stuffs her body in a bag, and puts an elephant in the room. W _hy?!"_

Sherlock whirled about to face the DI. "Can you really be so dense? Everyone knows the saying, "the elephant in the room". It is a metaphorical idiom for an obvious truth that is either being ignored or going unaddressed- an obvious problem or risk no one wants to discuss."

"So, you think the murderer has gone to all this trouble- kidnapping an elephant, driving it here, killing and then dumping the bodies and the elephant in here- what, just to make a point about something that no one is addressing?" Lestrade's incredulity made his voice rise with each word.

"Yes. That much is obvious, even to an idiot." Sherlock rolled his eyes, to make his ridicule obvious enough for even Lestrade to register.

"Well, pardon me."

As three black cars turned onto Ryder Lane at speed, John calmly asked "What's the issue that no one is addressing?"

" _That_ is the proper question to ask, John. And unfortunately, my brother doesn't want me to find out the answer. But whoever is engineering this little crusade against his agents does. And that is rather intriguing, don't you think?"

oOo

 **From the Personal Blog of Doctor John Watson:**

" _Nothing, and I mean nothing, could have prepared me for what we found at 29, Ryder Lane in Brockley._

 _Greg called us in. It was a typical suburban house in a typical suburban street. But inside that typical suburban house were two bodies. And an elephant. An actual elephant. Standing there in the middle of the room looking, well a bit bored, to be honest._

 _And... sorry! It's another one that I can't actually blog about because of the Official Secrets Act! I've probably said too much as it is. Although I'm not as bad as Sherlock. The amount of times I've had to stop him telling people about it."_

* * *

 **Author's notes:**

* The first time he raised the issue of his father's infidelities it covered in _Ex Files_ , the chapter called _Expedition_.

*The OCs mentioned here appear in _Devonshire Squires_ and _Magpie: One For Sorrow_

*Dagmar Court is real; mentioned in HLV, as one of the "three known bolt holes" by Lestrade, when Sherlock leaves the hospital after being shot. And the garages were actually sealed up.

*The incident with Mya, the Burmese elephant, actually happened. As a result, she and the other two elephants were removed from London Zoo in Regent's Park, and taken to Whipsnade Zoo. London Zoo no longer had elephants, alas.


	7. Chapter 6

**Magpie: Two for Joy**

 **Chapter 6: T minus 60**

* * *

 **Author's note** : There is a "missing case" reference in the ACD canon, where Sherlock says "It is a perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have more than once taken advantage of it. In the case of the Darlington Substitution Scandal it was of use to me, and also in the Arnsworth Castle business. A married woman grabs at her baby - an unmarried one reaches for her jewel box. " – _Scandal in Bohemia_.

* * *

The chirp of her phone cut through the dream and she woke up totally disorientated. Once her eyes got open, Ara saw the thin morning light edging around the dark navy curtains of her apartment's bedroom, and she knew she was back in Manhattan. The 24/7 noise of New York City's Lower West Side crept into the room, too. The phone chirped again, and she looked at the digital clock on the bedside table: 07.45. She groaned out loud. Jetlag had kept her awake until nearly four.

She reached for the phone and prayed it wasn't a text from Japan. She'd only just got back from Tokyo yesterday. Her half-asleep brain creaked into gear- it would be nearly ten pm in Tokyo.

 **07.44 Early sight of tomorrow's long range weather forecast predicts Miharu peak bloom 17 Apr- adjust travel dates accordingly.**

 _Damn global warming._ Why she had ever agreed to this commission, Ara would never know. She was on her feet, into slippers and fluffy dressing gown, and then pushed up the thermostat on her way to the kitchen and coffee. The 20th of March was still cold and windy in Manhattan.

Fortified by the first sip of steaming caffeine, she sat down and opened her laptop, dragging up the booking calendar. Four of her other photo shoots would need to be re-arranged. The Imperial Household Agency was, without a doubt, the most irritating officialdom she'd ever encountered. If this wasn't a special request from Mycroft Holmes, she would have told Grand Steward Kazaoka just where to stuff himself. And the fact that the IHA was insisting on a full week in Japan was what really annoyed her. It did not take a week for her to do her work, no matter how exalted the person. Now that she had met Masako ( _No, have to start getting used to calling her "Your Imperial Highness, Crown Princess" in public or the Grand Steward will have me beheaded)_ , and her daughter, she'd be able to sort the shoot quickly in a way that walked the lines so carefully circumscribed by Mycroft.

He'd explained, "It's certainly the most difficult commission you'll ever do. You must deal with an anxious mother, her reluctant and painfully shy daughter, Imperial protocol as well as the authorities' need to communicate to the Japanese people that progress has been made to deal with Fukushima II reactor disaster."

Ara had sniffed, "You want me to take on something between a rock and a hard place, not to mention an earthquake and tsunami. So how is it in the British interest to get involved in a PR stunt on behalf of the Japanese prime minister? I thought the emperor was supposed to be above politics."

Her mother gave her a slightly scandalised look. They were at the dining table in the South Eaton Place townhouse, where Lady Caroline took up residence whenever she was in London. Arabella was due to leave for New York the next morning; she had a shoot organised for the former supermodel Kendra Spears, now the wife of Prince Rahim Aga Khan in Manhattan in two days' time. She'd been the photographer invited to shoot the couple's private family wedding last September in Switzerland, at Château de Bellerive on the shores of Lake Geneva. The fact that she'd known Kendra for the two years before her marriage helped; she'd got to know her when she was doing work experience at a London Fashion Week shoot, well before she became encumbered with the title of her Highness, the Princess Salwa Aga Khan.

Ara was watching Mycroft, trying to judge his reactions. She decided another poke was necessary. "And why is the Imperial family willing to go along?"

He sipped his wine, and barely smiled at her caustic comment. "Don't assume the agendas are different. The Emperor wants to do his part."

"Why does a thirteen year old girl have to do that for him?"

"Her Imperial Highness the Princess Toshi represents the future. Children play an important part in the cherry blossom festival. And it is time that she was seen in public again; it's been three years. You can do justice to what both politics demands and the wishes of her anxious mother require. I have faith in you."

Now it was her turn to sip her claret thoughtfully. "You flatter only when you're after something. Why does this matter to you? How do you know her mother? I didn't think you were the ninja type to scale the walls of the Imperial Palace in Tokyo."

He rolled his eyes. "The Crown Princess has not always been a member of the Imperial family."

Lady Caroline smiled. "Oh, did you know her before she got married?" There was the slightest hint of tease in her tone of voice, and Ara smirked at the idea of her mother being curious about Mycroft's early dealings with young women.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I did, when she was plain Masako Owada, the daughter of a Japanese diplomat who was President of the International Court of Justice."

"Oh, she's like Kate Middleton then, a commoner."

A patrician eyebrow rose. "Not exactly 'common', my dear. Masako is fluent in five languages, including Russian, did a BA at Harvard in economics, _magnum cum laude_ , then studied at Oxford before returning to Japan in 1986 where she was one of only three women that year to pass the diplomatic service exam."

Ara snorted. "What, a sort of female version of you? Meet her on some diplomatic mission then, in a dark corridor?" Ara could never resist poking Mycroft. While Sherlock had been …away, she'd taken up his baton and used it as a stick to rattle the bars of Mycroft's cage as a way of remembering and honouring Sherlock.

"Hardly." He gave her a thin-lipped smile. "To start with, she's nine years older than me. When she was twenty six, the Japanese Foreign Ministry sent her to Oxford where she did post-graduate work with Adam Roberts in International Relations. At Balliol…she was there in my first and second year."

"So, this is a _personal_ request?"

Mycroft wiped his mouth fastidiously, and put his napkin down on the table. Miss Forester appeared like magic and removed their plates, then asked, "Can I tempt you ladies into a light dessert? A lemon posset with a blood orange granita." The housekeeper beamed, she knew that this was a favourite of theirs.

Ara's "yes, please" synchronised with her mother's. Then she smirked and looked back at Mycroft. "Off the pudds again?" and looked pointedly down at his waist line.

He glared a bit, ignoring that question before answering the first. "Yes, it is a personal request. The Crown Princess has had a difficult life since Oxford. She really didn't want to marry him, but after the third time he asked, felt her duty required it. She was afraid of what would happen- with good reason, it seems. The Japanese desire for a male heir became a real pressure cooker for her. There were negative press reports about stress-related illness before she finally got pregnant. They resumed with vigour after she miscarried. She withdrew from the public eye for a while. We lost touch. Everyone hoped things would improve when she had her daughter, but apparently post-natal depression put paid to that. That was superseded by a general anxiety disorder that has kept her in treatment for the past nine years. It was thought that that after her husband's younger brother produced an heir in 2006 the pressure might ease, but it has taken years of treatment before she could face a public engagement again- last year."

Lady Caroline murmured, "Poor thing. Life in a goldfish bowl is so hard."

Mycroft nodded. "She has paid a high price for the sake of duty to the Chrysanthemum Throne, and has to deal with the fact that the Imperial family and most of Japan's citizens believe she has failed in that duty."

"So why on earth am I going to get involved in this soap opera?" Ara didn't hide her suspicions.

"The Imperial Household Agency wanted their official photographer to do a portrait of the two of them- mother and daughter- on a public engagement, but the Crown Princess refused unless she could make her own choice. When she got in touch again with me, well, I could hardly refuse to help her…" He looked down the table again, fixing Ara in his gaze. "…which is why this commission needs to be undertaken by someone who understands these issues. It needs someone with tact and discretion, but who is also able to resist the pressures of the Agency. The break with precedent is hugely significant- an act of rebellion on her part to choose her own photographer. It has to be a female and she has to have world-class credentials as a photographer. So, I thought of you."

Now that eyebrow raised again, as if daring her to disagree with his assessment that she had both the skill and the tact to handle this. She knew she'd been manipulated into a corner. Still, she had some sympathy for the poor woman, which became more apparent when she learned about the brief. A mother suffering from an anxiety disorder was sure to be totally freaked by the idea of her daughter being photographed at the _Miharu Takizakura,_ a one thousand year old weeping cherry tree, considered a national treasure of Japan. While family photos were a traditional feature of the cherry blossom festival, it was the tree's location that would make it hard to bear- a scant twenty seven kilometres from the exclusion zone surrounding the Fukushima Two nuclear power plant destroyed in in the earthquake and tsunami of 2011 and still leaking radiation.

So, Ara agreed to take the commission. Mycroft passed the news on through private back channels, and the formal commission was there waiting for her even before she got back from London to Manhattan on New Year's Eve. That was before she discovered that cherry trees were not programmed to flower to suit anyone's calendar- particularly not this tree, which was the diva of the cherry tree world. To start with, it was huge- over twelve meters tall and the trunk was nearly ten meters in diameter. When she'd read that, she looked at her apartment living room and realised that the trunk was wider in diameter than the length of her living room, and her mind boggled. Apparently, the branches projected over twenty meters from the trunk. Its age and size meant that the flowers could open early or late, could be caught by a frost and damaged. She learned a lot by email- all about the fact that the tree was usually visited by over three hundred thousand visitors in a year, but since the nuclear disaster, numbers had fallen sharply. The IHA liaison official was keen to stress the importance of the photographs- "a demonstration of the resurgence of the Japanese national spirit after our times of trouble- and crucial to the economic recovery of the district."

 _Bloody propagandists._ This little lecture was delivered to her in person. She'd been summoned into the Imperial presence and had to fly to Tokyo four days ago, all expenses paid. Actually, it was more like being interrogated than a reconnaissance trip. Deeply suspicious, the IHA were determined to make sure she realised the "fragility" of the Crown Princess's state of mind; she was told in no uncertain terms that she must reassure the woman that this was not only safe, but a required duty for both the mother and the young girl. The photographs were to be vetted and approved by the Grand Steward, the copyright would be owned by the IHA, and her name as photographer would not be published or credited in any way.

When finally face-to-face, Ara's meeting with Masako was a surprise from start to finish. Over IHA objections, The Crown Princess had required the interview to take place at her home, rather than in the formal reception areas of the Palace, which protocol would have dictated. But first, there was a lengthy security and etiquette meeting that seemed to drag on interminably in the headquarters of the IHA, where a po-faced official attempted to teach her etiquette.

"You are not allowed to touch the Crown Princess. You must give a _keirei_ bow. Allow me to demonstrate- standing like this, lowering your hands on your legs to within two inches of your knees, back held straight at a 45 degree angle, eyes to the floor. Hold for a slow intake and exhale of breath. Practice it here."

Ara's initial resistance to the whole idea was tempered by the realisation that a Japanese person would probably be equally discomforted by instructions in Buckingham Palace about how to curtsy. So she bit her tongue and did what was required. She was relieved when finally escorted out of the IHA building and into a car that took her deeper into the closed precinct where the Imperial family lived.

The second surprise came at Masako's home, a modern building nestled amongst the trees of the Fukiage Gardens that certainly didn't conform to any postcard image of Edo Japan. The low two storey building was a concrete and glass construction that conveyed all that was modern in the Japanese design ethic. And the room into which she was escorted was furnished with an eclectic combination of modern Western and Japanese furniture- minimalist, but mixed with natural textures and a softness that spoke of an international cosmopolitan taste.

The Crown Princess was dressed casually in what Ara's eye recognised as Prada cashmere, her long dark hair worn loose, and a soft, almost shy smile of greeting. Ara started to bow, the way that the IHA Grand Steward had instructed her, but Masako crossed the distance between them and took both of her hands in her own. "Welcome, Lady Arabella. Please, allow me to be English for just a moment. It has been a long time since I have had the pleasure." She stared at the escort, who gave a deep, picture perfect bow and withdrew.

Ara answered her with a smile. "Whatever makes you most comfortable, Your Imperial Highness. Mycroft sends his personal greetings. He wanted me to say that first."

"And you must convey mine back to him- and my gratitude for sending you. I have such fond memories of my time at Oxford. It was so refreshing to speak with him at Balliol, both of us students. He never stood on ceremony then, despite his noble title. You and I must do the same now."

Ara wondered again at how strange all of this must be to a person who had not been born to it.

Masako saw the hesitancy. "Please, if we are to spend our time exchanging formal titles, Lady Arabella Herbert, daughter of the Earl of Pembroke, then there will be little time left for real talk. Please, call me Masako; almost no one does, apart from my husband."

Ara nodded. "Then you must call me Ara; no one but my mother calls me Arabella and that's only when she's angry with me." Before she could say anything more, Masako dropped her left hand, keeping hold of her right and led her down a hallway, to a coat rack of long green coats. "Please, put one of these on, and we will walk in the gardens. Less danger of being overheard chattering like school-girls and offending decorum. I want to hear all about how my friend is doing, and when he is going to make an honest woman of your mother."

Under the cover of the trees, the two women walked arm in arm. Masako explained that all the Imperial family members would wear the same plain, floor length waterproof coats when walking- it kept their privacy, because the grounds staff would mysteriously vanish from view. And it had a security purpose, as well, because no one would know for sure who was under the coat. Inside the walls, the family were safe, and could walk free from the presence of bodyguards. Ara wondered if the house had been bugged by the IHA; clearly Masako was not comfortable talking there.

After a brief exchange of small talk about the weather and Mycroft, her suspicions felt confirmed when the conversation took a direction that the IHA would not have been approved of, if the Grand Steward had been able to overhear anything.

"I am opposed to my daughter being used this way. She has had troubles of her own- pneumonia last year, and had to leave her school because the other students were bullying her. I think that now the Emperor has his grandson, the family think my Aiko is expendable. She isn't. I am determined that she should have a life as free as she can, and to support her in being a normal teenager. Something as simple as her name- we are all required to call her 'Princess Toshi' in public. Well, there are more than enough mannequins in the next generation of princesses willing to play their part in the Imperial soap opera. This commissioned portrait is actually a power game- the Agency wants to assert its authority over us both."

Ara wondered if this was paranoia, or possibly justified. In either case, it made her uncomfortable. "I have no wish to cause offence to you- or to the Imperial family."

Masako nodded. "I'm not _blaming_ you- no, far from it. I just want a way to protect my child. She should not have to face this sort of pressure. It isn't fair. I have to live with the consequences of the choice I made when I got married, but I will not, _cannot_ , allow her to be sacrificed in this way. She is more precious to me than anyone, anything. I would die for her."

Self-consciously, the Crown Princess blushed. "Sorry, a bit melodramatic. But, can you understand my problem? I keep wondering what would Mycroft do, if presented with such a dilemma?"

"I could ask…"

A sad laugh. "No, my dear, you must not, at least not while you are still here in Japan; there is no means of communication from you to him that will not be monitored. And to ask would be to reveal intent, and that I cannot do. I have been thinking that mid to late April might be the right time for both Aiko and me to succumb to a bout of 'flu and be unfit to travel."

The footpath came to a clearing, and there at the edge of the woods was a cherry tree, with fat buds. They stopped to look at it.

Masako pointed to those buds. "I thought we could have the photo taken here, if we were unable to leave Tokyo for the day. But unfortunately, these will be open and gone long before the _Takizakura_ will be in bloom. The heat of Tokyo brings our trees out early. So, it will have to be an illness. I wanted to be honest with you; your trip here may be wasted."

Ara gave her a reassuring smile. "That's a Plan B I am happy to accept, if it is the only way you can avoid the trip. And your honesty is refreshing; if I need to preserve the fiction, then I am happy to take photos of the pair of you here in the garden. But wouldn't that leave the people of Fukushima district without the moral support they deserve? They have been through a horrible experience."

The Crown Princess sighed, her frustration apparent. "If only the Agency had not promised them this; there could have been other ways to show solidarity. I wish there was some way I could reach out to them in their time of need- of course, but this is what the Agency use to put pressure on me and Aiko. It is moral blackmail."

The woman's demeanour darkened, and Ara could see how distressed she was at the whole scenario. As they walked further into the clearing, the younger woman thought she must try to find a way to square this circle. "Perhaps we can find a way that they can benefit, without risking you and your daughter. There might be a win-win. Leave this with me- I'll go back home, and think about a Plan C. There must be a way to satisfy everyone. If Mycroft can't help, I know his younger brother might be able to figure something out- he's more devious. Will you trust me- and them?"

Masako nodded. "What choice do I have? It is the reason why I reached out to an old friend. So I will trust you, too, my new friend. Let me take you back now, and introduce you to Aiko. She is in need of a friend, too."

Ara had been amused to find a young teenager, rather shy, but when coaxed out of her shell, happy enough to talk about her tumblr account and how she wrote fan fiction about _Kuroko no Basuke_ _._ "It's a great way to learn how to write in foreign languages, and because no one knows who my avatar really is, I am allowed to do it." Then she pouted. "They won't let me use facebook, twitter or snapchat. It's unfair. I like taking photos, but they won't let me put anything on Instagram or pinterest- too "western", not Japanese enough."

Ara's natural rebelliousness came out. "Let's take a selfie together. You can keep it on a USB, and no one will know."

They both got out their phones and took a picture of each other. Then Aiko laughed and said, "let me take one that I wished I was brave enough to send to the Grand Steward." She crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. "I'll caption it _me in a digital prison_."

Ara laughed. "Yep- Prince Harry and William had the same problem when they were teenagers. Still do, in fact, even now they're grown up. You're lucky that you don't have to be heir to the Queen of England. I wish I had a cousin who could take on the burden of the Pembroke earldom. My mum's been good so far in letting me do my own thing, but sooner or later, it's going to get me."

"You have no cousins? How sad." Aiko commiserated. "I wish I had a big sister as cool as you are."

On the plane journey home, Ara realised why Mycroft had sent her to a woman who had once been a commoner, and now bore a title, with a daughter who was at risk of being manipulated by everyone. There had been a message in his choice of Ara- Masako would appreciate the fact that Ara's mother had supported Ara in her decision to pursue her own career, and leave aside for the time being the vexed Pembroke title and all it carried with it. Her mother had made the right choice, and Ara was just plain grateful- and so relieved that there was no royal or imperial family to say otherwise in her case. It changed her view of Mycroft.

Thinking of him now in the freedom of her Manhattan apartment, Ara considered the nightmare that was her diary. Somehow, despite this week's commitments, she still had to find time to get to London and talk to Mycroft and Sherlock about how they could make Masako's photoshoot into a win-win.

 _I'll think about that tomorrow._ Yawning, she smiled as the motto came to mind- her favourite line from the film _Gone with the Wind_. She'd watched it last year, as preparation for a shoot on Louisiana's Rosedown's plantation. Alexandra Underwood, a former contestant of America's Next Top Model show was getting married at the place, which had once been owned by her grandfather. Photographing former models who now wanted family pictures was always tricky, but she had enjoyed her trip to the Deep South- another side of America from the frenzied hubbub of NYC. That was one of the joys of her profession- it took her everywhere in the world, and gave her the excuse to do research, so when she met her clients, she knew something about them already.

When Ara was onto her third cup of coffee, firing off emails to the clients who were going to have to be re-scheduled, her phone chirped again. _Not another bloody message from Tokyo._

She spotted the number as a UK one, but she didn't recognise it. Opening it, she was delighted to read

 **11.12 Are you available Sat 18 May am/pm for John's wedding? He needs a photographer with a brain uncluttered by cliché. SH**

She called up the May appointment page.

 _Yes_! It could be done. She was due in Milan by the Monday afterwards; the _Si Sposaitalia Collezioni_ trade fair was on from the 20th to the 23rd, and she'd agreed to work with Allesandra Rinaudo's PR agency to produce an Instagram and pinterest campaign. She was starting to build her reputation as a portraitist with a quirky, individualist approach. While the catwalk was all about the dresses, the PR company was going for a campaign that featured the audience's reactions. She really did prefer people to fashion, and her skills as a portraitist were developing all the time.

 **11.16 Yes; I'm available 18/05.**

The thought of seeing Sherlock made her smile. It brought back fond memories of the two weeks she'd spent camped at Baker Street, while doing her work experience. She'd learned a lot about him then. Late, after John had gone upstairs to bed, she had asked Sherlock about a lot of things. Ara appreciated the fact that he never patronised her, or treated her like the half-formed person she felt herself to be. His opinion of her _mattered,_ although she would be hard pressed to say exactly why.

He would always be one of her favourite people- and without a doubt her favourite photographic subject. She wondered if she could put together a part of her next exhibition devoted to him. After his return, the limited edition photos from the exhibition had all sold out. And she needed him to think of a way out for both Masako and the Fukushima people; a face-to-face would help.

 **11.17 Need J+M's agreement tho- don't foist me on a reluctant bride!** **I'm coming to London next week. Talk then?**

The pingback was almost immediate, as if he had been waiting. She was to bring a portfolio of her work to Mary Morstan, who would have final say. But she wasn't to tell her or John the real fee or travel expenses.

 **11.17 How much should I say?**

 **11.18** **They are on a derisory budget. Tell her £500. Mycroft can pay the real cost. SH**

She made a decision. This wasn't about the money. She wanted to be there – for Sherlock, if not for John.

 **11.19 I'll do it for £100 if you will let me take new photos of** **you** **separately to add to my 'collection'. I'll explain why when I see you**

The reason was simple. Neil Selkirk was curating an exhibition at the Howard Greenberg Gallery in December; she'd been thrilled to be one of the four "up and coming" photographers asked to contribute- and knew it was off the back of her one woman exhibition last year in London and New York*. She still had the Christmas photos of him in the bath, and she'd snuck a few more while he was at Parham, before her mother got him and Mycroft willing to sit across from one another in front of the fire. _A study in brotherhood._ They had been in the middle of some sort of bantering argument that neither Ara nor her mother could follow, because it was taking place in Serbian, of all things.

Entitled _Celebrity = Mediated Reality_ , Selkirk's exhibition was about what was real and what was a media invention- designed to challenge the viewer to re-think their preconceptions. Sherlock was just the right subject. Ara kept checking her phone. No answer yet to her proposition, and that made her nervous. Had her ambition been too blatant?

A part of her just wanted to be there at the Watson wedding, to give moral support to Sherlock. In their conversation at Parham, she'd caught the ambiguity in his assertion that he was happy for John. And he probably was- just not necessarily happy for himself. In the steamy dark bathroom, she had sensed that he was more than a little uncomfortable about his own feelings on the matter. Ever thus, for Sherlock. It was one of the things she found fascinating about the man. All that brain and talent wrapped around a core so deeply private that she doubted even he knew what he really felt. _An enigma_ _wrapped up in a mystery, with no codebook to hand_. In real life, very different in person from the cardboard cut-out the media created when recounting his rise, fall and resurrection.

She had gone from the hero worship of her teenage years to a more nuanced understanding of the man. He seemed to have accepted her, from the very beginning, and she wondered how much that had strengthened her resolve about her university choice, and then the career. She was under no illusions about how hard this wedding was going to be on him.

While she waited for Sherlock to make up his mind, Ara started thinking about the portfolio she'd give to Mary. She would have to include some of Sherlock, and the couple of shots she had of John. Those and the crime scene stuff would show her she knew them, and could be trusted. There was a time when she thought John Watson was on her side, too, but that thought wobbled a bit when he didn't reply to the London exhibition invitation. It would be good to show him what he missed.

Ara started thinking about which of the wedding portraits would suit a woman that was obviously respected by both men. Nothing cliché, that was for sure. And she'd have to avoid the ones – usually demanded by the bride's family- of the "glam poses", the stuff that a mother liked to show off to their friends about how "beautiful" their little girl had grown up to be. Somehow, she thought Mary would be a rather different kind of person.

The phone's chirp made her jump.

 **11.28 Deal SH**

She exhaled, and inserted the date into her appointment app.

oOo

* * *

 **Author's Note** : (if you have not yet read _**Ex Files: Exclaim**_ (chapter 52), I suggest you do before tackling this part; and the _**Ex Files**_ Chapter 50 _**Exorcism**_ helps, too)

* * *

The woman whose name was definitely _not_ Anthea watched Agent Rawlings leave Mycroft's office and shut the door behind him. Only when they were alone again did she dare speak.

"How could he have known? He didn't have the USBs for more than a couple of minutes, did he?"

Mycroft gave her a wan smile that revealed volumes. "He obviously found a way to make a copy. And has deciphered enough of the conversation now by finding a Georgian who speaks Svan."

"How? Even I would struggle to find someone like that living in London."

Mycroft sighed. "Irrelevant now, my dear; what's done is done. We need to keep more than one step ahead of him on this now. And that means I need to know more about his movements earlier today."

The young woman whose real name was Ketevan** Ioseliani pushed her long dark hair back over her shoulder as she leaned over to open the file in front of Mycroft. Photographs of Sherlock walking down the North Thames Pathway extension on the Isle of Dogs were on top.

"He left Barts limping, and disappeared in the vicinity of the Samuda estate for about ninety minutes. We've got two men there undercover now trying to find out if he approached any local dealers, and where he might have gone. There is CCTV on the estate, but no sign of him on it."

Mycroft slid the top photo off, to reveal the picture taken by the drone. It was an odd angle, but even at the height of the camera, Sherlock's distinctive Belstaff betrayed him- and the presence of John Watson beside him on the pavement was also clear. The two men seemed to be arguing, if the doctor's body language could be properly judged at this angle.

She voiced what she thought her boss would be thinking. "It was unfortunate that the Met found the body first; just our luck that the MIT assigned to it was Lestrade's, and that he called Sherlock."

Mycroft sighed again, and this time rubbed his forehead, as if getting a headache. "I am beginning to think that luck is not on our side. What did our team find at Ryder Street?"

"The remains of Simone Dewberry methodically dismembered and put into the sports bag _in situ._ Our latest comms with her was last night. But she didn't reveal where the meet-up was going to take place. The other body is tentatively identified as her contact, Tamaz Giorgaszi, but we are sending off his fingerprints to Tbilisi to be sure."

Now Mycroft put his hands down on the folder, and she saw his determination in that gesture. "Send a team into Baker Street; look for his stash. His behaviour says he's either using already or soon will. While you're there, find the device that has the files on it. We can't take the risk. If he deciphers them, then he will know enough to start building an identification. And we have to stop him doing that, at all costs."

She nodded. It was the logical thing to do. But she did not want to leave him to think through the horrors of what was happening on his own.

"Sir, we're running out of contacts we can trust. The whole network is being targeted."

"It would appear so. And that has…" he seemed to have to reach for the word. "…consequences. I am beginning to question the security of our arrangement. Either someone is attempting to locate him through our contacts, or…" It was as if Mycroft couldn't or wouldn't voice his fears.

She was the only one with whom he could have this conversation. The only person he trusted enough to share in the secret. It had been so at the beginning of their relationship in 2001, when he had first come to Tbilisi and recruited her as part of the arrangement to deal with a prisoner whose identity would be kept a secret. She'd seen the man whose vocal cords had been removed into his new cell, and then left for London to report that fact to Mycroft Holmes.

"I could go back, sir, to be sure."

That made him look up from the folder in surprise. "No, my dear Keta, I would not, could not risk you. You know far too much now- not just about this, but about everything I do. There are people in Georgia who would find you too tempting a target. Besides, I promised your father I would keep you safe, in exchange for the arrangement."

"But we need proof, sir, that the prisoner's still alive and where he belongs."

"The blood is his, and it's fresh."

She knew as much as he did that those facts did not mean that Fitzroy Ford was still incarcerated in his private cellblock in Gldani prison.

Mycroft shrugged. "The SDS director has assured me that the agreement is intact."

She could hear in his voice the fact that he was trying to convince himself as much as her. "But can you trust the new man? My father has reservations."

Mycroft smiled. "Avtandil _always_ has reservations. It was a shame he retired in 2004."

"It wasn't his choice, sir, as you know."

They both knew well enough. The role of the head of the Georgian security service was never an easy one. Her father had managed to survive the 2002 slander campaign that targeted both him and the head of the National Security Council. Political motivations ran rampant that year, and proved too much for the NSC's Nugzar Sajaia, who committed suicide with his service weapon. Keta's father was made of sterner stuff, and he survived in office for another two years.

2004 had been a terrible year for the British who were interested in keeping a particular prisoner incarcerated in Tbilisi. The special relationship between Mycroft Holmes and the Georgian Security Service had to be re-established through three changes of director in the space of six months. Ketevan realised that in their own way, both of her boss's brothers were high maintenance.

Mycroft was still trying to downplay the seriousness of the situation. "And your father is not always right. Life was easier under Gela Bezhuashvili, it has to be said. At least he gave us five years of stability."

He pushed himself back from the desk and got to his feet. "Perhaps it is time for me to do a little legwork of my own. As Gela's successor, Davit Sujashvili doesn't seem to want to leave Tbilisi, so perhaps I should pay him a visit."

She drew a sharp intake of breath. "Wouldn't that be risky, too?"

He gave her a raised left eyebrow- his way of showing scepticism. Over the years, she had become as adept at reading him as he was of her, so she answered her own question. "They wouldn't dare, is what you're thinking. But, because I am a mere minion, I'd be fair game." She sighed- it was logical.

That made him smile, one of his genuine ones- rare and for that, all the more special. "Not a minion, my dear. Never that, more of a helpmate."

She couldn't help the tinge of blush. "Flattery? How unusual, coming from you."

"I have high standards, which you generally meet. And I will expect the same from you while I am gone. Under no circumstances is Sherlock to suspect anything other than the fact that I am consulting my contacts on the current situation in Libya, and so incommunicado. Go to the trouble of filing a false flight plan. I am beginning to think that little brother picked up some rather deplorably good hacking skills while he was away on his gap year adventures. Now, where are the files I need for my meeting with the Defence Minister?"

She handed over the file, and told him the car was already waiting outside. "I've contacted Miss Forester to remind her that it's white tie this evening. I suggest you go straight home to change, after your meeting. Lady Caroline texted to say she will meet you there."

"Thank you, my dear. What would I do without you?"

She smirked. "You'd be less well prepared, turn up ten minutes late on occasion and probably in the wrong clothes, although still impeccably dressed. You do tend to forget the minor details when having so many of the world's problems on your plate."

Shouldering on his coat and picking up the file, he retorted, "That's why I have you, isn't it?"

Organising Mycroft Holmes was demanding, but rewarding, and the time passed quickly. By seven, his trip was sorted apart from one detail that she would have to do from home. She'd laid the false trail through the services. Since Sherlock had established his own relationship with MI6 through Elizabeth Ffoukes, she could no longer be trusted with the real information. So, the meeting over the border in Tunisia was communicated in the usual form- an exchange of diary data between the PAs of each of the service heads, with the Permanent Secretary at the Cabinet Office.

At seven fifteen, she collected her protection escort – a fresh faced twenty seven year old graduate of Sandhurst- and headed for Piccadilly Circus. Descending to the Bakerloo Line, the woman who was notAnthea chatted to Lucinda Palmer as if they were just ordinary co-workers at some boring office job, and then the pair alighted at Lambeth North. Lucinda was telling her about her date for the evening and some club in Tottenham they'd be going to later.

When they got to the front door of the rather non-descript apartment block at Number 19 Gerridge Street, she sent Lucinda off. "Enough- I can manage a flight of stairs in a secure apartment block on my own. See you tomorrow morning at 7.45. Have fun tonight."

As she walked up the stairs, Ketevan was already prioritising her agenda. It would be half past midnight in Tbilisi, but she knew her father suffered from insomnia, so was probably still awake. Even before fixing herself a supper, she needed to get onto the fake Facebook profile they shared and send a message that to someone else's eyes would be a totally anodyne exchange. Only he, she and Mycroft would be able to decode it.

Once inside the front door, she secured the locks and then saw that the tiny strand of tape under the door handle into the living room was still intact. Ketevan broke the seal and did the usual room visual scan to see that nothing had been disturbed. Satisfied that protocol had been properly followed, she flopped down on the sofa and opened her laptop. Kicking off her shoes, she started to write the message that she would need to encode.

It was never simple. The process involved three levels of encryption, any one of which would have stymied anyone other than the three people who used it. The message would be sent in English, but then translated at the other end into Georgian, which would include the coded elements that then had to be translated into Persian. She poured herself a glass of white wine from the fridge and took in back into the living room, and sipped it while checking where the Georgian translation of the English would carry the coded message.

Now, for the second level of coding- As it would already be Thursday the 21st of March in Georgia, she would need to set the next level of code using the third chapter and twenty first line. The letter that would start the substitution would be keyed to the time of the message being sent- so she'd take the second letter in Persian script used by the book's author, Hakim Abu ʾl-Qasim, a man better known in the West by his penname of Firdowsi. She padded back down the hall past her bedroom to the door into her little study. It was a box room really, too small to be anything but a child's bedroom. She'd lined it with bookshelves, installed a comfy reclining chair and an internet connection- her hideaway. She checked that the long dark hair she'd stretched across the door handle above the latch was still there, and entered the dark room.

"Edzebs raghats?***"

As she registered the fact that there was an unknown man in her study, the floor lamp by the chair snapped on and she blinked into the light that was shining directly into her eyes. Her brain caught up with her ears first, and realised that the baritone was familiar, even though she wasn't used to hearing it in that language. She snapped, "Sherlock, what the _hell_ are you doing in my apartment?!"

She reached for the switch by the door and turned the ceiling light on, which revealed the long limbed man lounging in her recliner, wearing a smirk.

"Well isn't it obvious? I'm enjoying your reading collection." He gestured around the shelves lining the walls.

Ketevan willed herself to keep calm, and to keep her eyes on Sherlock. Whatever else she did in his presence, she must not look at _that_ particular space – second bookcase along the right wall, third shelf from the ceiling, seventeenth book in from the left, amidst the poetry books. Under no circumstances could she let him know.

She watched as the smile on his face broadened. He was still avoiding eye contact, so he must be observing her with his peripheral vision.

He drawled, "Oh, he has taught you rather well, hasn't he?"

 _Offence is the best defence_ : "Answer my question, Sherlock. How did you get in here?"

"Don't you think I'd be able to find the little unique signs of Mycroft's signature tradecraft? The tape on the door, the hair on the latch? He taught me, too, you know. Well, I say 'taught'. Not intentionally- he'd never do that willingly. It was just a case of observing what he did and then realising why he did it. I was seventeen and I spent a summer at the townhouse. I learned a lot that summer."

She fired her second salvo. "What on earth did you say when I walked in?"

"Oh, we both know the answer to that." He smirked, but kept his eyes on the bookcases. "I haven't had the opportunity to hear a great deal of the language, so apologies for the accent. You could always offer to tutor my pronunciation." He lounged back in the chair and looked at the ceiling.

"I don't know what you are talking about. What I do know is that I am tired; your brother has run me ragged today, and I want time off." Then, as if it had suddenly occurred to her, "How did you find out where I live?"

He snorted. "Don't tell me that you haven't read the file that was on Mycroft's desk when I got back from Serbia. You probably prepared it- that's what you do: pre-digest his information to make it easier for him to swallow. You've read the gory details. You know exactly what I am capable of."

She rolled her eyes. "Am I going to have to call your brother to get you out of here? Maybe I should just recall my escort and have you removed at gunpoint."

He looked at her now, and she could see his eyes properly for the first time.

"Oh, bloody hell- Sherlock! You're _high_!"

He grinned. "Mmm; yes. Just enough to prepare myself to figure out a thirteen year puzzle. Why my brother chose _you_ as his PA. Needed to focus, so I could figure out which of these is your cipher book."

Her heart sank. But she didn't allow that to change her body language.

Sherlock was in full flow, and didn't seem to notice. "You shouldn't have left your laptop at home. If I can get into Mycroft's, yours is no challenge. And however much you've learned to alter your sentence construction to pass for a native English speaker, one of your Facebook friends seems to have a rather Kartvelian cast to his English. That's your Georgian contact- a relative of yours, I think."

"You're so far gone on cocaine, you're delusional. I'm definitely calling your brother." She turned back to the door.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Ketevan." He was on his feet, moving with feline fluidity, putting his weight onto the door just as she tried to open it.

He was close behind her too close, in her personal space, with an arm either side of her. Oddly, she wasn't frightened. She turned back towards him, to realise his face was much closer to her than she expected. He was making rather more intense eye contact than she expected from him, and for a moment, he held her there with an almost animal magnetism. She could smell his cologne- Penhaligon's Hammam- a heady melange of Turkish rose, musk, sandalwood. The exotic undertones were such a contrast with his brother's scent. Blenheim Bouquet was English aristocracy personified- cool citrus and pine, with a just a hint of lavender. _Clean, ordered._ The contrast between the two brothers was never more pronounced that at this moment. Too used to seeing him through the prism of Mycroft's fraternal concern, she was for the first time ever, truly _aware_ of Sherlock. A pair grey green eyes held her, his pupils dilated as if by desire. He wet his lips and smiled.

She shook off the sensation, and ran for cover. "What's a _ketevan_ , some Serbian swearword?"

He smiled again, and this time, it was gentler. "Ketevan, the Georgian for Catherine- it's a lovely name- suits you. You should tell your relative that he shouldn't have sent you a greeting on your name day for the past decade. That's what made it easy to deduce you. On the Russian Orthodox calendar, it would have been the 7th of December; in the Catholic calendar, it's the 26th of November. But _your_ name day is the 26th of September when those messages arrived, because you're named after Queen Ketevan, martyred in 1624 on that day- in the modern Georgian calendar."

 _He doesn't know my surname._ She started breathing again. "I am definitely calling your brother. You are off your head. He'll not be amused that you're using again."

"He's already deduced it. But he won't have predicted me being here with you. He tends to think of you as his own private possession. How does it feel to be _owned_?" Again, he was looking at her with an almost feral pleasure in his gaze.

She narrowed her eyes at him, ducked under his arm and walked further into the room. He might stop her from reaching her phone in the living room, but she wasn't surrendering just yet. This was a test of wits.

He laughed, a full throaty baritone. "So, does he call you Keta or Keti?"

"I have no idea what you are talking about, Sherlock, but I do know it's time to stop playing silly games- just get out of my apartment- _NOW!_." She put every bit of annoyance and anger she had into that word, in the hope of getting through to him.

"It's no game. I've been thinking about the likely code book. One that you, your relative and Mycroft might legitimately have on your bookshelves. I have an eidetic memory for the contents of Mycroft's bookshelves in the townhouse, but that wouldn't help if it were just up to Mycroft- I'd have no chance of figuring out the particular book- and he knows it. But, with two other parties involved, that narrows the field considerably."

 _Don't look_. She willed herself to be still. She focused on the view outside her second floor window, over the little strip of darkness that was the grass behind the block of flats. Then she decided to try to throw him off the scent and cast a quick glance as she turned, just catching a glimpse of the politics section on the bookcase near the door.

He came closer to her back, and bent to whisper in her ear, "Now who's playing games? Ketevan was martyred not in Georgia, but in Shiraz- that's in Iran. Brings Persian poetry to mind, doesn't it?"

 _He's fishing. Don't let on._

But any chance of her keeping control was punctured when he followed up, "It's not hard, you know. Books on your shelves and his. You have twenty three poetry books, all in the native languages in which they were written. Interestingly, he has over sixty- and there are twenty duplicates on both your shelves. Only nine in English, but seven in Persian. So, is it Rumi?"

She turned to face him again, studiously avoiding looking at the section of the bookcase that held her poetry collection.

He wrinkled his nose. "No…too sentimental; love poetry? Don't think so- not his style. For the same reason, I'd kick out Hafez. You've got a volume of Nizami Ganjavi, but he doesn't."

She stilled her breathing, concentrating on keeping it slow and steady.

"Maybe Omar Kayyham? The philosophy and mathematics would appeal to Mycroft; but the poetry is rather hackneyed for his intellectual taste."

She realised he was toying with her, provoking her. She forced a calm smile.

The smirk returned. "You've been looking everywhere but the right place, and that tells me everything I need to know." He glanced at _that_ place on the shelf before continuing "Sometimes, what you _don't_ do is just as revealing as what you do."

He walked to the shelf and drew out a fat volume.

"Deducing the right one is easy. There is _one_ author he'd favour, if just for the title alone- 'The Book of Kings', Firdowsi's _Shahnameh_. Of course, Mycroft knows all sixty thousand couplets by heart. He's such a show-off, never could resist memorising the world's longest epic poem."

She closed her eyes in defeat. _Game over._

* * *

* covered in _Exhibition- an Ex Files Special_

** Ketevan (Georgian: ქეთევანი) is a Georgian feminine name derived from Katayoun (Catherine), a female character from the Persian epic Shahnameh. Diminutive forms of the name Ketevan used in Georgia are: Keti, Keta, Ketato, Keto and Ketino.

*** ეძებს რაღაც ? means "Looking for something?" in Georgian.


	8. Chapter 7

**Magpie: Two for Joy**

 **Chapter 7 T minus 42**

* * *

 **Author's note:** Between this chapter and the previous one, things have moved on. Check out the stories in _Ex Files_ Chapter 51, _Exclaim_ and then Chapter 11 in _Express_ , to get the backstory.

* * *

Mrs Hudson put the tray down on the coffee table, and poured tea.

"We're not expecting the Queen, Mrs Hudson; no need to use your best china."

Mrs Hudson gave Sherlock a slightly offended look, but softened it with a tiny smirk. "I like to keep up standards for your visitors. No need to poison people with whatever passes for your version of washing up a mug."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson. Quite kind of you, I am sure." Mycroft gave her his patronising smile, the one Sherlock had always thought he kept in his repertoire to manipulate the servants at Parham.

She passed them both their cups and then looked back at the tray. "Should I pour one for…?" She nodded towards the kitchen, where Stephen Rawlings was standing.

Mycroft replied before Sherlock could. "No, he's just leaving." He cast a meaningful eye into the kitchen. "Rawlings…you won't be needed for the next hour or so."

He then looked back at Mrs Hudson, who took a moment to take the hint.

"Well, then; I'll leave you two to…" she hesitated, choosing her words carefully before continuing, "…discuss things."

When the door was shut behind her, Sherlock drank his tea, being willing to risk burning the roof of his mouth, rather than give Mycroft any eye contact. He counted the footsteps going down the stairs, the clunk of the front door being shut behind Mycroft's agent, and then the sound of Mrs Hudson's kitchen radio being turned up loud. She was clearly expecting the two brothers to start arguing, and past experience had told her this could get noisy. Sherlock didn't blame her for wanting to avoid conflict; he'd have liked to have done so himself, if only his brother would have obliged.

Mycroft put his full cup of tea back in its saucer. "How you can tolerate her plebeian taste in tea, I will never understand, Sherlock."

As opening salvos went, it was passive, almost conversational.

Sherlock didn't look up, but took another deep swallow of the tea. Whatever he thought about the relative merits of PG tips, he wouldn't give Mycroft the pleasure of agreeing with him.

"Do I get a list this time?"

The question got him a glare. "No need; I'm clean. I'll even take a test, if you want."

The glare was answered with a dismissive sniff. "That's probably true, but only because stimulants have such a short half-life, and you haven't been given the chance to resume your binge. Well, we did clear the flat out and install a baby sitter. I don't need a test, because I believe my PA, who said you were clearly using stimulants."

"I wouldn't have had to, if you'd been honest with me."

"You've been using that excuse for far too many years, brother mine. It wears exceedingly thin these days." Mycroft studied his fingernails.

"You've been lying to me for far too many years, Mycroft, and your protestations of honesty are increasingly threadbare." He snapped this, rather waspish.

If truth be told (and he'd rather die than admit it) Sherlock was feeling the effects of coming off a three day stimulant binge. He wanted nothing more than to raid his bolthole stash for something to take the edge off, just a benzo or three to help him sleep, or even a touch of opiate just to slide him gently down. Instead, he'd been transported back from the bolt hole in a black van and frogmarched up the stairs to the flat by four of Mycroft's team. The brawny agent Rawlings then unceremoniously stripped Sherlock of his clothes and handcuffed him to the bed, before sitting down in the corner to watch him. One of the other three agents rotated through every six hours- and not one of them proved willing to say a single word to him, no matter how much he provoked them through deductions about their personal and professional lives. His Serbian guards had been more vulnerable.

When he needed to pee, one of the agents sat on his legs while the other did the necessary to direct the urine into a plastic bottle. He was given water through a straw, but no food. For the rest of the night and all the next day and night, Sherlock had gone nearly mad with trying to keep his agitation under control; come downs were never easy, and doing so under this degree of constant scrutiny and invasion of his personal privacy was unbearable. This morning, one of the agents arrived to tell him that he could get up, washed and dressed- his brother was coming to see him.

His hand did not tremble as he put his empty tea cup back in the saucer.

Mycroft tutted, " _Still_ dehydrated? I would have thought thirty nine hours would be enough to sober you up."

Sherlock counter-attacked. "How's Ketavan? Brought her up to date with all the Georgian gossip yet?"

Mycroft just looked at him. "I am going to assume that you bear the person in question no personal ill-will. As a result, you will not refer to her by any other name than the one she has given you. To do otherwise is to put Anthea at risk."

"Oh, dear, have I offended your sense of ownership?" It was less a question, more an observation. "Just who is it in Tbilisi that has rattled the bars of your cage so very hard? I don't think I've seen you quite so…irritated and worried in years, maybe even decades."

Of course, to anyone else's eye, Mycroft would have appeared unchanged, as unruffled and rigidly controlled as ever. But, Sherlock knew differently. The infuriating thing was that all his efforts to decode the files and put the data together had showed him that the end of the rainbow was in Tbilisi, but he had absolutely no idea what or who it was that had distressed his brother this much. From what Sherlock had been able to gather from Mycroft over the past ten minutes, he'd put this mystery on as high a level as the time when his brother had discovered the Sigursson Plan. There was a difference this time, however; Mycroft was not _angry_ with Sherlock on this occasion.

And that fact puzzled him even more, because the kidnapping of Ketevan had been designed to do just that. After years of experience, Sherlock knew that Mycroft revealed most when he was able to make him angry. Yet, Mycroft was not rising to the bait. In fact, he was distinctly _avoiding_ the more blatant reprisal that Sherlock had expected. When he'd been manhandled by the agents into the back of the black van, he'd assumed he'd wake up in a rehab unit. It wouldn't have been the first time. So, despite the irritating presence of his brother's minions, his being held prisoner in the flat was an interesting wrinkle that Sherlock was still trying to work out.

Mycroft did not reply to his barb about his cage bars, but simply stood up and walked over to the tray on the coffee table to deposit his still full cup. Then he started reading the Wedding Plan on the wall over the sofa.

"This is the first time I've had a chance to peruse your little distraction. Is it working to keep John Watson and his fiancé at arm's length?"

"Don't be so patronising, Mycroft. I'm immune to your attempts to play mind games with me."

Mycroft pursed his lips, scrutinising the Gantt chart next to the map. He sniffed. "Neither of them realises that this is just a form of intellectual stimming, indulging your appetite for perseveration."

"Mycroft…" This was uttered in a warning tone, as Sherlock got to his feet and closed the gap between them.

His brother gave him one his annoyingly knowing smiles. "Well, don't take my word for it. Your little pathologist friend spotted it, too. And now she's passed on the news to your latest therapist, and thence to Doctor Cohen, who both came to me- a veritable deputation of cognitive specialists to say how your executive functioning is being compromised. I must confess to not believing them at first. But looking at this…" he gestured to the wall, "…well, there's clear evidence of decreased flexibility and sub-optimal planning."

"In what way?!" Sherlock failed to keep the outrage from his voice. He had worked hard to manage the whole process; nothing was being left to chance.

"You're vetting the guest list- but you're not doing the same with the suppliers- any one of which could be using the wedding as yet another opportunity to prove to you yet again that threatening John Watson motivates you."

Sherlock turned his head to the side, as if hardly believing what he was hearing. "Why the sudden concern about John? You're the one who's been telling me he's got on with his life. Marriage will put enough distance between us that he won't be a target anymore."

Mycroft allowed himself a stifled snort. "Is _that_ the justification you give yourself as an excuse for this waste of your talents?"

"You'd prefer me to chase up a loose lead or two in Tbilisi?"

This time he did get the expected reaction- an ice-cold blast of dictatorial authority straight from the freezer. Mycroft went very still and then said through clenched teeth, "You will not even _think_ of leaving the country, brother mine. I have put a stop on your passport; you won't get out of the country without me knowing it. And if you ever thought of using the false passports you must have stashed away, souvenirs of your gap year adventure, be assured that Georgian authorities have your visuals on a watch list."

Sherlock smirked. "Now we are getting somewhere. Such extreme measures…you _are_ in a tizz."

Mycroft reached out and took a very firm grip on Sherlock's arm, turning him away from the wall to face him. "Listen very carefully, Sherlock. This does not concern you. It is merely the relic of something that happened a decade or more ago in the security services, and none- I repeat, _NONE_ \- of your business."

Sherlock had stiffened at the physical contact, and how he shifted his gaze to where his brother's hand was gripping his arm. He thought that whatever truce between them, formed after the Serbian debacle, ended the moment Mycroft laid his hand on his arm. _Time for another flanking manoeuvre._

Deducing his thought processes, Mycroft added, "It won't help you to run to Elizabeth Ffoukes this time. She will not help you in this matter. No one will. If I even suspect you are thinking of leaving the country, then you won't be given the courtesy of being returned to your flat; it will be confinement in a more secure facility. I won't need a sectioning order; it will be a matter of national security."

Sherlock kept staring at the offending grip on his arm.

Eventually, Mycroft released him. "Go back to your wedding planning, Sherlock. If you want to keep John Watson safe, then you need to stay off the drugs. It might embarrass the groom if his best man has to miss the big day because he's in rehab. And stay put in London, or you'll end up behind bars, unable to perform your duties for the Watsons on their 'Big Day'."

Mycroft turned away from the wall and walked to the coat hook. He put his coat over his arm and collected the umbrella.

Without turning, Sherlock sniffed. "Take your babysitter with you, Mycroft; he's not needed here."

"I'll be watching you, brother mine. Stay out of trouble, will you?"

Sherlock didn't give him the courtesy of a reply.

oOo

"Hmm…you've lost a bit of weight, Mister Holmes." The grey haired tailor was adjusting the charcoal morning suit jacket on Sherlock, using the cushion of pins attached to his wrist to mark where the material on the back would need to be taken in a bit at the waist.

The second man working with John had a smile that he was trying to hide, but the doctor could see it in the mirrors that surrounded them at Henry Herbert, Gentlemen's Haberdasher of Savile Row. John had taken the afternoon off to join Sherlock for the second fitting of the suits that were being produced for the wedding.

"Whereas you, John, have put on weight, but he's too polite to say so." Sherlock seemed keyed up, almost fidgeting under the fingers of the tailor as he did his pinning. "You'll need to be dieting as much as Mary is at the moment. She is panicking that she won't fit in her dress."

The younger assistant tried to smooth things over. "Never mind, sir, that is the benefit of custom made; adjustments are always possible, even up to the last minute." He reached under the jacket to loosen the silk strap at the back of the dove grey waistcoat that John was wearing under the charcoal wool tailed jacket. "That's better."

John sighed. "I really didn't need to be reminded of her current state of mind, Sherlock. All this palaver… I would have been perfectly happy with a MossBros hire suit."

Both tailors looked askance, but it was Sherlock who sniffed, "You might have been, John, but neither Mary nor I would have. No off the peg suit fits me; you know that. And I was told not to upstage the groom by getting something tailored to fit me while you turned up in something plebeian- Mary made that very clear."

John snorted. "Well, maybe I am a plebe, but heaven forbid that you had to adjust your standards downward. You can be a posh git sometimes, Sherlock."

"Speaking of posh gits, lucky for both of us that Mycroft is footing the bill for these." The bespoke suit was Mycroft's wedding present. Sherlock straightened his back, stretching his arms to get more of the double French cuffs to show. He loosened the light grey, almost silver tie a trifle. "If I have to break the habit of a lifetime and wear this noose to satisfy Mary, then you can manage the right clothes to mirror her taste."

There was the muffled sound of a mobile phone emerging from the changing cubicle at the back of the room. John recognised it as Sherlock's – the opening bars of the Bach Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. John had always thought that piece of music rather ominous. Sherlock used it for the calls being forwarded from the number given on his Science of Deduction website for prospective case work.

"Would you like to answer that, sir?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I know who it's from. Ignore it. This is more important."

John wondered at that statement. He would never have predicted that Sherlock would take his duties as wedding planner more seriously than The Work, yet several times in the past week, since the elephant in the room at Ryder Lane, Sherlock had turned down cases. Today when John arrived at the Savile Row shop, Sherlock was already in the fitting room, pacing. He seemed on edge, antsy.

John surveyed their appearance in the mirror, with a slight frown. "Why is it you look like some bloody relative of the Queen and I end up looking like a butler or an undertaker? Maybe we should have gone for the lighter grey jackets, instead of this one." He fingered the fabric, which was the darkest of charcoal grey, with a very fine, almost invisible black stripe.

The tailor behind John looked horrified. "Oh dear, no sir. Light grey jackets are only for the races. You wouldn't want to be mistaken for someone without the dress sense to know that."

John sniffed, "The only one of the invitation list who might know the difference is standing right next to me, or his brother." Then a mischievous gleam appeared in his reflected image. "I don't know- maybe I should wear a kilt; after all, Watson is a name of Scottish origin."

"Mary would be aghast. The Watson tartan plaid is a rather garish bright blue, green and yellow with a red line. Impossible clash with the lilac shade of the bridesmaid's dresses."

"Careful there; you're insulting my forefathers."

Sherlock's lip quirked, and he turned to the tailor. "Next thing he'll be wanting one of those lurid American tuxedos with satin lapels and a gaudy cumberband."

The older tailor's eyes widened in horror. Both Sherlock and John giggled.

The doctor contemplated his look in the mirror. "I'm not really arguing- this looks great. It just seems an extravagance- and I mean, really…when am I ever going to wear this kit again?"

The tailor slipped into the smooth gear of reassurance. "Of course, sir; that is the advantage of the groom's outfit instead of a bride's wedding dress. While one hopes that she never has the occasion to wear hers again, the gentlemen's morning suit is an excellent investment- the staple formal wear of the British social season. You can wear it to any of the events- from Glyndebourne, a Buckingham Palace Garden Party, or the races."

Sherlock's smile grew. "And there's always Mycroft's funeral to look forward to- I'm sure there'll be a strict dress code for _that_ event. Perhaps we should plan ahead and get a black waistcoat to match, while we are at it?"

John stifled another giggle. "Getting on well with your brother these days?"

"No; not at all. He's being a bigger prat than usual. Arrived at the flat yesterday to give his ritual lecture, much to my horror. So, let's increase the cost; we _will_ have the second waistcoat, in funereal black."

"As you wish, sir." The older tailor nodded, as he finished his pinning. "I understand that the bride is organising the pocket watches for your waistcoats, but perhaps you would like to do the fitting for your top hats and gloves today?"

Sherlock eluded the tailor's grasp and reached over to his tablet sitting on the chair at the side of the room. He flipped the cover open, swiped the calendar icon, and then frowned. "Not today. Too much on. When we come back for the last fitting on the 29th of April; it's not like our heads or hands are going to grow in the meantime."

John smirked. "That depends…solve another couple of big cases and that could make your head swell."

The day had been like that- a bit of banter back and forth. Sherlock was in one of his super-focused, tightly wound up moods, and John was trying to use humour to soften the hard edges.

"We have a timetable, John. And every minute counts. Two more stops."

On his knees, putting the finishing pins into the hem of John's trousers, the assistant commented "it would be useful, sir, if at the final fitting you could bring the shoes that you intend wearing at the wedding, so we can use the heel height to get the hem just right."

John looked down at the black shoes poking out the bottom of his trousers. "What's wrong with these?"

The tailor rocked back on his heels, a look of astonishment on his face. "Oh, sir, brogueing is never acceptable on your shoes at a wedding. That would be as hideous as wearing patent leather dancing pumps. One must invest in a plain toe capped leather shoe."

Sherlock interrupted before John could argue the sartorial toss. "Never mind, John. The next stop is Barkers on Jermyn Street, a ten minute walk from here. We might as well splurge and get you a pair of handmade shoes; Mycroft can afford it. From there, we need to get to Selfridges before four thirty."

John gave him a puzzled look. "What for?"

"Not a what, a _who_ \- Phillipa Craddock to be precise. I am reliably informed she is the best florist for traditional weddings. She's sparing us the pain of a trip to East Sussex. She's doing the flowers."

"And what favour does she owe you?" John was learning that this was a better question to ask than to raise the subject of how they could afford a society florist.

"She was born at Parham; her father was head gardener for my mother."

"Why does that entitle me and Mary to anything special?"

"She once promised my brother she'd do the flowers for free, for whichever of us got married first."

John tried to puzzle that one out. "But neither you nor Mycroft are…"

Sherlock interrupted with an impatient gesture. "Your wedding is the nearest I am ever going to get to a nuptial ceremony, John, so I might as well call in the promise. At least I get to play a part in yours. Phillipa was delighted; I think she had despaired of either of us ever tying the knot. I need to pick up her sample photobooks to take them to Baker Street. Mary's going to arrive at the flat after her shift ends at five, to make her choice, and catch up on the timeline of activities."

John was now resigned to the fact that their entire wedding was being financed by people who owed Sherlock some sort of favour. He might be sticking to John's rule not to spend his own money, but his friend seemed to be calling in every debt owed to him to make their day as special as Mary wanted it to be. The thought both touched and disturbed John in equal measure, but he wasn't sure why.

The phone in the cubicle repeated the Bach. Sherlock scowled at the noise, walked over to the door and shut it firmly, muting the sound.

It was a half hour later, when the sales assistant at Barkers on Jermyn Street was taking the measurements of John's right foot, that Sherlock's phone went off again. He ignored it and after two rings, it must have gone to voice mail again.

John decided that he'd had enough of Sherlock's martyring. "That sounds like a most insistent client."

" _Prospective_ client. I haven't decided." Sherlock's left leg was jiggling with impatience.

"Look, if this …wedding stuff is getting in the way, just take a break. It's not like you to turn down The Work."

"Nonsense. We have a timetable to keep to. Tomorrow you have an appointment with Ara; please don't forget about that. There are things to be done, places to go, decisions to be made. There is less contingency than ever."

John worried about this frenetic burst, but didn't know how to voice his concerns about Sherlock without sounding a bit anxious himself. The last month had revealed a new side of Sherlock that he was still trying to understand. The PTSD of Hartswood was gone- the EMDR had worked for him in a way that it hadn't for John. But what had replaced the flashbacks and reclusiveness was an edgy energy and a level of control freakery that bordered on manic at times. That in itself wasn't unusual, but in the past that sort of focus and direction had always been focused on case work.

A sales assistant passed John a beautiful plain black leather shoe that probably cost more than his last month's paycheck. Sherlock sniffed. "No, the stitching is too obvious, and the shine too bright."

"Whose foot is this going on, Sherlock- yours or mine?" John decided that a case was probably exactly what Sherlock needed to re-direct his energies toward something more interesting. "What's it about?"

"What?" Sherlock looked up from the offending shoe at John, obviously confused by the question.

"The case?"

"Oh." He reached over to his coat, tossed in the chair next to him. Digging into the Belstaff's wide inner pocket, Sherlock pulled out his tablet. "He sent this email three days ago. Read it for yourself. This…" he gestured at John's feet "…only needs your feet, not your eyes."

The doctor scanned the email. It was long- usually a sign of a boring case, a trivial one that someone thought terribly important but which usually never even warranted a reply from Sherlock.

 _Mr Holmes, I am a PhD student at Goldsmith's College, University of London- and I have a case for you, one that your blogger Doctor Watson will call "The Case of the Invisible Roommate". I share digs with a fellow student Alan Flanagan, and we are both media students working on Virtual Reality simulation as new immersive media experiences. A week ago, he walked straight into me while I was standing in the middle of our lounge, nearly knocking me over. When I asked him why, he said he had not seen me there- I was invisible, and had only reappeared when I started talking to him. We both had a laugh, and sort of forgot about it. Until it happened again. This time he actually sat down in the chair I was already sitting in- and said I wasn't there when he looked before sitting. The same phenomenon has happened four times since- and not always in our flat; it's happened twice at Uni. In one class he started talking to a friend of mine about me, as if I wasn't there- and the friend didn't see me either. They both freaked when I started talking to them- calling me a disembodied voice. I thought it might be a joke- an elaborate hoax, but then another student none of us knew walked by and when Alan asked him whether there was anyone standing beside him, the stranger said, 'No'. This time it took almost fifteen minutes before they said I started to return to normal- a process they swore took at least five minutes. He says it must be a side effect of my spending so much time in my VR world; I'm losing my corporality in this world._

 _Will you please take this case? I am afraid I may be losing my mind- and my body!_

 _Kind regards,_ _Jack Griffin_

John smirked, and muttered, "He's having you on, Sherlock."

Just then, Sherlock's phone went off again. This time he pulled it from his suit pocket and scowled at it.

"Go on, answer it. Put the poor sod out of his misery."

With a put-upon sigh, Sherlock thumbed the connect button. "Hello, Mister Griffin." Within a few seconds he rolled his eyes at whatever was being said on the phone.

John smirked, and said, _sotto voce_ , "well, he might be invisible, but he isn't inaudible."

"Tha…" But whatever Sherlock was going to say, the person on the other end of the phone ignored his attempt to interrupt their flow of thought. Sherlock's frown turned into an outright scowl. Unable to get a word in edgeways, he pulled the phone away from his ear, closing his eyes in frustration. John could hear a tinny voice continuing to speak, but wasn't able to distinguish the words.

Finally Sherlock's patience snapped. He bellowed, " _SHUT UP!_ "

The sales assistant measuring John's left foot visibly flinched.

Sherlock put the phone back to his ear. "Mister Griffin, I will think about what you have said, and if I can make any sense of it, I might contact you again. Right now, however, I am _BUSY._ Goodbye." He thumbed the phone off quickly, before the student could respond.

The Consulting Detective threw himself to his feet, and started to pace around the sales room. "Why are people so thick?!"

John smiled. "What's happened now?"

"He swears that he can't see himself in any of the mirrors. Called up in an utter panic and demanded I go over there and see for myself."

"So, why don't you?"

Sherlock started to say something, and then stopped, suddenly distracted by something. He picked up a shoe from the wooden shelf beside where he had been pacing. "This is the one."

The sales assistant looked up at the Consulting Detective. "Good choice, sir. The Exeter in black calf, a traditional Derby that is classic, yet modern. It never goes out of fashion."

"Comfortable, John. You'll be on your feet for several hours and need to be able to dance in them, too."

John sighed. "Dancing…" He shook his head. "Mary wants us to do something traditional as the first dancel- a waltz or something. I haven't got a clue."

Sherlock handed John the shoe and then continued on his journey. John felt the softness of the leather. It was amazing. Sturdy leather sole, but not the hard stiffness that he usually associated with new shoes. The brogue pair he was wearing now he'd had for almost twenty years. Four soles and three re-heelings later, the shoes were as moulded to his feet as if they were slippers. But, this black shoe was in a whole different class.

"I could teach you." This was said in a rather tentative tone; Sherlock had stopped pacing and was now looking out the plate glass window onto Jermyn Street.

John didn't hide his surprise. "You? When did you ever learn how to dance? I wouldn't have thought you'd have the patience for that sort of thing." He tried to imagine how someone who didn't like physical contact and had gone to an all-boys public school could have learned ballroom dancing.

There was something slightly defensive in Sherlock's reply. "It's a good way to improve co-ordination and balance. I had to work hard at those, but hated team sports. Dancing was easier because it involved music."

That made sense. John smiled. He was still learning about Sherlock- never one to volunteer anything about his past ("It's _passed_ , John- by definition not important") just occasionally little snippets came out that surprised him, like this one.

"I've got two left feet, and in front of the wedding guests, I'll probably make a mess of it."

The sales assistant smiled politely. "I can assure you, sir, having just measured yours, you have both a right and a left foot. Your shoes will be ready by the 11th of May."

"Excellent." Sherlock answered for him, as John tied his own shoes back on. Then the taller man was suddenly in motion again, pulling out his tablet and rapidly scrolling onto the internet. "I've added it to the list."

"What?"

"A couple of lessons…I know just the dance studio. We'll need space. The first just on your own; once you've got the basics, then Mary can join in, without you feeling like an outright beginner."

John started to laugh, shaking his head. "God, you're almost as bad as she is about this."

"Bad?"

"You know what I mean." John gave him a grateful smile, opened the door of the shop and gestured for Sherlock to go through. "Lead on, Macduff."

Sherlock frowned. "That's a common misquote. What Macbeth actually says is 'Lay on, Macduff' to goad his foe into attacking."

"Whatever…what I meant is - you lead, I'll follow."

"You'll have to lead when you're dancing. Not good to let Mary do that."

Ninety minutes later, they crossed the threshold of 221b, armed with two shopping bags of photo albums from the florist. Mrs Hudson greeted them in the hallway.

"You're late, Sherlock. I do wish you'd tell me when you have a client appointment. I'm not your secretary or your housekeeper but it would be useful to know when you are expecting company. I've taken the young gentleman upstairs and given him a cup of tea."

"Who?"

"He didn't say; just that he'd spoken with you on the phone this afternoon, and that you'd agreed to see him."

John followed Sherlock up the stairs, but then almost walked straight into him when the man stopped suddenly, two steps into the living room.

"John…"

There was an empty suit sitting in what he still thought of as _his_ chair, as if there had been a body in it that had just…vanished. A cup of tea was on the side table beside the chair, steam still rising from the cup. The arms of the suit were positioned as if the flesh inside had been resting on the arms of the chair. There were shoes at the bottom of the trousers, laces tied neatly and looking as if the feet and the legs to which they were attached had just faded away.

Sherlock said, "Mr Griffin, I presume?"

John started giggling, but when Sherlock didn't join in, he stopped. "Sherlock; it's a gag, a prank. There's no such thing as invisibility."

"Not true. There are at least three known solutions that create the effect of invisibility. That suit could be a hologram. The email said he and Flanagan were involved in Virtual Reality- the technique of augmented reality has been used to approximate invisibility since the 1960s; all you need is a garment made of highly reflective material, a digital video camera, a computer, a projector and half silvered mirrors called a combiner." This came out at the rate of knots, Sherlock's usual deductive stream was cranked up just that little bit faster by the agitation he'd been showing all afternoon.

"Sounds a little farfetched….I don't see any of those things lying around, do you?" John was finding it hard to keep a straight face.

But Sherlock was taking it seriously. "That's the _point_ , John. You wouldn't see any of those things. He could be hiding anywhere in the room." He started darting about the room, thrusting his arms under the table, onto the seats of the chairs, the sofa, into corners.

"Sherlock, will you just stop? This is crazy."

"No it isn't. The US, Japanese, Canadian and Israeli armies have all been testing invisibility cloaks. The science is straight forward- treated fabric bends light, shields against infrared and thermal imaging cameras, and can be programmed to project an image that renders the object invisible because it blends in with the background."

"But, look…the suit is _empty._ " John walked over to the suit and lifted an empty sleeve.

"That doesn't mean anything. He could be hiding under a Vatec multispectral 3D combat camouflage blanket projecting the same fabric as your chair."

Sherlock strode over to the chair and poked behind the suit. When his hands found nothing other than the chair, he turned and looked around. "Or he could be anywhere in the room." His voice was getting increasingly worried, making John begin to wonder why Sherlock was taking it so seriously.

"Why? Why would someone do this? These two media students are just playing you."

Sherlock didn't stop- he climbed up onto the bookcase and started waving his arm in front of it, as if to interrupt some projected image. "How do we know they're just students? Taking them at the word of an email? It could be Mycroft testing out some new equipment, spying on me."

"Now you're being paranoid, Sherlock." John crossed his arms in front of his chest, his scepticism clear. "Why would your brother _announce_ the fact by sending you an email?"

"Just the sort of thing he'd do to try to wind me up." He started to toss down books from the top shelf, papers and files started to rain down onto the floor.

"Sherlock…."

"The Canadians call it _quantum stealth_ ; they're working on a paint that bends light, allowing someone to blend into the background." He nimbly leapt from the bookcase onto the mantelpiece, and then to the bookcase on the other side of the fireplace. The shower of papers and books continued.

"Sherlock!"

It was the tone of army command, and it made Sherlock stop, and turn around, still precariously poised on the bookshelf. "What?"

"Mary's due to leave work any minute now to come here and you're wrecking the place."

Sherlock hopped down.

"Call her; tell her it isn't safe. Not until we are sure the flat is empty. In fact…" He scooped up the two shopping bags full of photo albums. "…take these and go home; she can make her decisions at your place. It's not safe for you here."

John laughed out loud. "Sherlock…this is crazy. The only thing I'm in danger of is getting beaned by a book thrown by a consulting detective who is taking a prank too far." He stopped. "Oh, is this _you_? Have you set this up to try to make me believe in an invisibility cloak? John sniggered. "I know I can be gullible, but I'm not _that_ gullible."

Sherlock looked confused. He put the two shopping bags down. "I'm not playing a practical joke, John. This is serious."

Whatever John might have said got drowned out by the sound of his mobile phone going off. He pulled it out and looked at the number. "It's Mary." He thumbed the connection icon and put it up to his ear. "Hi, Love. Are you on your way?"

" _Nope. Change of plan. I was halfway out the door of the clinic and threw up rather spectacularly all down my uniform."_

"Oh. Wow, that sounds nasty. Do you think you're coming down with something or was it something you ate?"

" _No idea. I've been nauseated since this morning. I'm heading home for a shower and clean clothes."_

"Well, Sherlock just said I should take the flower books home to you, and save you the trip. So, I'll head off now. Just get home; I won't be long. Love you; bye."

He looked back up from the phone to Sherlock, who looked concerned. "Mary's just thrown up. She said she's been feeling ill for most of the day, and is heading straight home."

Sherlock held out the two shopping bags again. "Good."

John gave him an odd look. "No, it's not good that she's ill."

"I didn't mean it that way. I meant, it's good she's going home. And you now have an excuse to go. Take these and leave now."

He took the proffered bags, but gave Sherlock an odd look. "Are you going to be okay here?"

"Why shouldn't I be?"

"Well…I don't want to find out from Mrs Hudson that you've taken the place apart looking for an invisible man."

"Go, John. _Now_."

The doctor was torn. With Sherlock acting quite as strangely as this, he would have preferred to stay around, and see if he could calm him down. But Mary was in need, too- and hers sounded more urgent, so he said his goodbye to Sherlock and Mrs Hudson on the way out.

Just under an hour later he made it through the front door of his flat and was relieved to see Mary in her pyjamas and robe, sitting on the sofa. She greeted him with a smile.

"Feeling better?"

"Yes. The shower helped and so does the peppermint tea."

John put the shopping bags down and sat beside her, then reached over to lay a hand on her forehead.

She smirked. "No, Doctor Watson, I do not have a fever."

"Well, that's good news."

"But I am off food tonight. Can't face the idea of cooking supper, so you're on your own."

John frowned. "You need to eat something. How about I fix some scrambled egg? Just a little?"

She shook her head. "I won't starve, love. In fact, I could do with losing a few pounds to avoid looking matronly at the wedding, so this is one time I will take advantage of the fact that I'm not hungry."

"Well, here's food for thought then." He got up and pulled out the photo albums from the florist. "Sherlock says you decide whatever you want- he's put a list together of what is required."

The list was lengthy- bride's bouquet, button holes for John and Sherlock, different ones for the ushers and the pageboy, Archie; corsages for the bridesmaids, then flowers for the church- the porch columns, altar and the arrangements tied to the end of every pew. Then it was onto the Arnsworth Castle Hotel, with the top table arrangements, the guest tables and the floor standards- one in each corner of the room. Then the bridal suite, and dried flower petals for confetti. Mary opened the first album he put on the coffee table, and snorted at the photo- a huge, gorgeous arrangement of white flowers on a tall Grecian column. "And how did he convince a florist to do for this sort of thing for the price we can afford?"

John smirked. " _Noblesse oblige_. She grew up at his family estate, and said he would get flowers for free at his wedding. He says ours is the nearest he'll ever get to one, so he's cashed in the promise."

A few worry lines appeared on Mary's forehead. "He really is giving this event everything he can, and yet…"

"What?"

"Oh, John…no matter what we say, he must be worried about what will happen between you two, once we're married." She put her tea cup down and hugged her knees to her chest. "I feel like I'm taking his best friend away from him." Her eyes teared up. "And, what's worse, he's arranging his own execution."

"Hey…" John sat down again beside her and pulled her into a hug. "Stop this. I've said it before, I'll say it again. It isn't either/or. I will marry you and we will build our life together, without me losing him as a friend."

"Then why isn't he taking you on cases anymore?"

"He is. We just had one last week where there was an elephant in the room. And today, when we got back to Baker Street there was an empty suit waiting for us."

"What?"

He sniggered. "It's some uni students pranking him, I think, pretending to be clients. Funny, but I can't say he got the joke."

John left her to the photo books of flowers, while he cooked himself some scrambled eggs.

Later, when Mary had slipped off to bed, he watched a bit of a late night talk show, thinking that it was just the sort of inane discussion that would have had Sherlock shouting at the television. His mobile vibrated on the coffee table where he had left it next to the flower books. Muting the telly, he picked up to see an incoming text.

 **23.10 Cracked it. We were drugged at Selfridges and taken by the cab to a replica 221b. A camera projected the suit onto the chair. SH**

 **23.11 LOL. Who would do such a thing?**

 **23.12 Ninjas, ordered by Lord Moran. The suit never existed; a hologram projected by mirrors. SH**

 **23.13 Moran's dead- you told me so yourself.**

 **23.14 All we have is Mycroft's word on that. SH**

John sniggered. He started typing,

 **23.14 This afternoon I was there, Sherlock, remember? Spoke to a *real* Mrs Hudson on my way out; no fake flat, no hologram. You've been pranked, so stop digging yourself in deeper.**

 **23.15 I'm serious. SH**

 **23.15 I'm seriously tired, and going to bed. Joke's over. Good night, Sherlock.**

John switched the phone off, and headed towards the bedroom, still smirking. He slipped into bed alongside a warm, sleeping Mary. As he drifted off, he'd started to write a blog post about it- the Hollow Client.

Back in 221b, Sherlock put his phone down and eyed the Ninja who was sitting in John's chair. At least, he thought the man might be a Ninja. From head to toe all in black, with just a slit through the face mask for his eyes, the apparition looked the part, right down to the epicanthic eye-fold. On the other hand, he could be from China or Korea, just disguised as a Ninja, but the antique Samurai sword across his knees suggested otherwise.

"Who are you?"

There was no answer to his rather tentative question. On second thought, he couldn't be sure he'd even voiced the question; he might have just thought it.

Sherlock tried again. "Why are you here?" This time his ears registered the sound of his voice.

There was a shrug, and then in the Japanese dialect favoured by the Yakuza, the apparition spoke to him.

"You should know the answer; this is your hallucination."

Frustrated, Sherlock looked around the facsimile of 221b that he kept in his Mind Palace. "I need to think straight, about John, about who has been trying to kill him four times in the past five months, and whether there is any connection to what happened in Georgia, whatever did happen."

The Ninja removed his mask, and it was James Moriarty. "Then you should've taken cocaine, doofus. You know ketamine messes up your concentration."

There was a reason he'd opted for ketamine, but not one he'd like to admit to Moriarty."It was a low dose- not _recreational_ , not the sort to create hallucinations. Anyway, go way. You're supposed to be _dead._ "

Jim shrugged. "Am I? But, then so were you." The Irishman lifted the sword and balanced it on his hand, gave it a wolfish smile of appreciation. "So beautiful. So sharp. A bit like the way your brain used to be, before you let your pet mess it up so much." Moriarty gave him one of his manic laughs, and then tutted at him. "If you weren't so weighed down by sentiment and anxiety about losing your only friend in the world, then you'd have figured out Mycroft's little mystery by now."

Sherlock closed his eyes, not wanting to face what his Mind Palace was telling him. The Moriarty avatar wasn't one he'd consciously let out of the padded cell in the basement, and it was a sign of his current mental fragmentation that the bastard had somehow made it out on his own.

Sherlock had made the call to a dealer from the changing cubicle at the suit fitting, while he was supposed to be getting dressed. He'd popped open the back of his phone and swapped in the SIM card from the burner phone, just long enough to make the call. He'd hidden the Sim in the lining of his Belstaff, knowing that neither Ketavan nor Mycroft would deprive him of the coat for long.

When they'd got to Phillipa Craddock's florist boutique in Selfridges, he'd excused himself to go to the loo, while she talked to John. Once in the quiet of the department store's Gents, he'd met the dealer whose discretion he could count on, paid for the ketamine hydrochloride and took the first dose in the stalls. A low dose, just enough to steady his nerves. He'd ridden out the fifteen minutes of the drug's anaesthetic impact in the back of the black cab on the way to Baker Street.

Once John had left the flat, he took the second injection and sat down amidst the shambles that he'd made of the living room- books and papers scattered in a mess. Sherlock chose to avoid looking at the side of the room over the sofa. He couldn't allow all the minutiae to keep distracting him. He kept his back to the baleful threat on the wedding wall, and contemplated his future. John was going to get married and disappear into domesticity. He knew that. And it was okay, because it made him safer than if he was still at Baker Street.

But that thought was little consolation. If there had been someone here using an invisibility cloak, then it could be the same person who had put John in the bonfire, or the one who had led him to the dwarf with the poisoned Amazonian dart. Would the next attempt succeed?

 _I'm not being paranoid, as long as I don't know the answer to that question._

The whole situation was starting to get on Sherlock's nerves. _Too many unsolved cases_. He'd been struggling with the comedown from the stimulants taken when he kidnapped Ketavan, but his efforts there had not solved the case. All this failure was just too much to bear.

"Oh, Sherlock…" This taunting call was uttered in the high-pitched, sing-song voice he'd come to associate with Richard Brook, the children's actor persona that used to such good effect at the end.

The Moriarty avatar was not letting him go. He opened his eyes, to see that at least it was no longer dressed in Ninja disguise. This was the dark suit and navy wool coat that he'd worn to the Barts rooftop, complete with a bloodstain down the shoulder. Sherlock had not needed to check the corpse for a pulse; the scent of gunshot residue had been mixed with that of cranial fluids, blood and splattered grey matter. That scent now filled the room, bringing back the memory of those short moments of panic, when Sherlock had realised it was the worst case scenario- he would have to fake his death and disappear. Seven of the thirteen scenarios had given him a chance to tell John before he vanished. Four of the other scenarios could have led to a reveal some weeks later.

 _If only_. If only one of those scenarios had been possible, he wouldn't now be planning the end of his friendship with John, in order to save his life by marrying him off to someone who would be able to keep him safe in a way that Sherlock couldn't. All that effort to take apart Moriarty's network had not been enough to protect John. The mere existence of Sherlock threatened John's life- that was the harsh reality of his return.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, waiting for the second dose of ketamine to do its job. He knew he was fighting off depression. It had been lurking for weeks. He was always vulnerable to a dip in mood after a stint in rehab. And no matter how they dressed it up, Hartswood was rehab.

It was like his brain chemistry couldn't cope with being clean for too long. Cases were being dull in the extreme, or frustrating as hell. The Georgian connection, the dwarf, and now this invisibility lark. Sherlock closed his eyes again, took a deep breath and tried to avoid putting his hands in his hair and giving it a tug. If Mycroft did have a camera on him, that would be a give-away, a tell-tale sign that he was struggling.

The ketamine should lift the depression long enough for him to figure a way out of this mess. The medical establishment were starting to realise what he'd known for at least a decade- using the drug created a dissociated state, a dream-like pause that re-booted his brain in almost the same way as ECT had when he was a child. With one huge redeeming feature- it didn't lead to amnesia. He had bought enough to get him through a week of treatment, and if he was lucky, the benefits would lift his mood out of depression for a couple of weeks without anyone noticing. He needed to hold things together until John was safely away on honeymoon.

That reminded him. He stood up and wandered over to the Wedding Wall, and started a new sheet of paper. Writing " _Suppliers on Site_ ", he silently thanked his brother for the suggestion that they too would need to be vetted.

Sherlock got back to work.


End file.
